


Born for the Fast Life

by skuldchan



Series: That's How We Roll (Ace Attorney x Fast and Furious) [1]
Category: Fast and the Furious Series, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Canon-Typical Absurdity, Canon-Typical Bad One-Liners, Canon-Typical Car Stunts, Canon-Typical Movie Violence, Car Chases, Crossover, Drift Racing, Established Relationship, Gyakuten Saiban 5 | Dual Destinies Spoilers, M/M, Married Miles Edgeworth/Phoenix Wright, Miles Edgeworth and Phoenix Wright are starring in an adrenaline-fueled action-packed extravaganza, Miles Edgeworth is a closet gearhead, Physics What Physics?, Post-Furious 7 (2015), Pre-Gyakuten Saiban 4 | Apollo Justice, Seven Year Gap (Gyakuten Saiban), Street Racing, Team as Family, background Dominic Toretto/Letty Ortiz, background Tego Leo/Rico Santos, every fandom needs a fast and furious crossover and i'm not sorry for it, the crossover nobody wanted but me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-08-29 20:44:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16751239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skuldchan/pseuds/skuldchan
Summary: When Interpol sets a trap to capture the international spy known only as the "Phantom”, Franziska von Karma recruits Miles Edgeworth to be a part of an elite team led by DSS Special Agent Luke Hobbs and infamous street racer Dominic Toretto.





	1. Go Hard or Go Home

[](https://imgur.com/jPyhvJR)  


Miles Edgeworth wrinkled his nose in distaste as the final scene of the _The Steel Samurai_ reboot faded into the ending credits.

Phoenix looked over at his husband, about to ask what he thought of the gritty reinterpretation of his favorite classic, but decided to hold his tongue. 

“Don’t even ask,” Miles said glumly, staring in despair at the television. Phoenix gave him a reassuring pat on the back. 

His cell phone ringing spared him further suffering, and it was with great relief that Miles picked it up from the side table, noted the caller, and answered it. 

“Hello, Franziska.”

“Good evening, Miles. Sorry for interrupting your night in, but I’m going to need you to open your front door.”

Miles paused. Phoenix gave him a curious look and mouthed, “Say hi for me.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“Just open your foolish door, I’m standing right here!”

Still holding onto his phone, Miles stood up and pointed at the door by way of explanation when he saw Phoenix’s confused expression. He flung it open to a very annoyed Franziska von Karma. 

“What are you doing here?” Miles asked, hearing his own voice echo through his cell phone before his sister cut the line. 

“Nice to see you too, brother,” she sniffed imperiously, and brushed past him, shouldering her satchel and rolling a small suitcase behind her. She gave him a quick hug after he closed the door, and made her way into the living room as if she owned the place. 

“Wright, I see that you are well,” Franziska said stiffly, her way of letting them both know that she was here on business and not on a social call. But Phoenix didn’t care, and just pulled his sister-in-law into a big hug, which she tolerated with resigned silence.

“I’m good! But you could’ve let us know you were coming.” 

“I called about an hour ago, but I didn’t get an answer.”

“We put our phones on ‘do not disturb‘ when we're watching something,” Miles admitted. He checked his phone again and found that he had six missed calls. 

“Foolish fool,” Franziska glowered, and Miles couldn’t even disagree because he desperately wished he could get that one hour of his life back. “So I went straight to your house from the airport, but you didn’t even open when I rang the doorbell.”

“That’s because it’s broken,” Phoenix said. They hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yet, mainly because Miles didn’t like the thought of someone—anyone, or worse, a neighbor—being able to march up to his door and just ring it. 

Speechless, Franziska stared at both of them.

“This fool’s foolishness is rubbing off on you,” Franziska snorted finally, shooting a withering look at her brother-in-law. 

“Thanks for the warning,” grinned Phoenix remorselessly. “It’s a bit late, though.”

Franziska made a noise of disgust. “Where’s Trucy? Don’t tell me you’ve misplaced my favorite niece.”

“She’s at a sleepover,” replied Miles. “She’ll be home again tomorrow afternoon.”

Franziska nodded once. “That's too bad, but at least there will be no one eavesdropping on Interpol business. Have a seat,” she said, inviting her brother and his husband to sit themselves down on their own couch. She retrieved a stuffed manila folder from her bag, and placed it on the coffee table between them.

“Interpol business has nothing to do with us anymore,” Miles said. “I’m still a researcher at Ivy, and he’s still disbarred.”

“I know.” Franziska folded her arms. “But I think you’ll find something very interesting in that dossier right there.”

Curious, Miles opened it. There were four words splashed across the top of the first page that caught his attention. 

International Spy: the Phantom

A frosty smile crept its way up Franziska’s lips. “So are you in?”

Miles looked to Phoenix, who gave him a small nod.

“We're in.”

* * *

Miles Edgeworth slipped off his sunglasses as soon as he entered the shadowy warehouse. How on earth had he let Franziska talk him into this, he wondered, as he opened the butterfly doors and stepped out of his red McLaren 720S. Oh right, this baby, of course. He didn’t get to keep it, but it would be his for the duration of his assignment here. He trailed his fingertips along the side the car, admiring the sculpted lines of its carbon fiber body.

He was sporting the most casual clothes he had in his closet, a subtly Steel Samurai-themed T-shirt that had been designed as part of a collaboration with Armani—originally a gift from Maya Fey—and the only pair of jeans he owned. They were upscale and fairly tight fitting, as was appropriately fashionable, but looking about the room, he supposed he need not have been concerned about his sartorial choices. 

Miles faced the rest of the band of misfits that had gathered around him, the coolly evaluating stares of this gang of mostly professional criminals that he was supposed to be throwing his lot in with. He recognized some of the assembly from a few files he had once seen across his desk, on the list of L.A.’s most wanted. That felt like a lifetime ago. Well, none of that was his concern, now that he wasn’t a prosecutor anymore. They must’ve done something impressive to be recruited by Interpol, and working alongside the only law enforcer in the group, a special agent from the Diplomatic Security Service by the name of Luke Hobbs. 

Hobbs stood at the front of the group, looking like someone might if they subsisted entirely off of protein shakes, and punched through brick walls as part of their morning exercise routine before hitting the gym for eighteen hours straight. The DSS fatigues he wore were tight, not because they were small, but because the manufacturers likely didn’t make anything larger than what he already had on.

“Miles Edgeworth. To be honest, I didn’t think you’d show,” Hobbs said, approaching. His tone was brusque and clipped, typical military.

Miles stepped forward to greet him. Damn, he’s huge, he thought. Hobbs towered half a foot over him, and likely weighed double. He did not envy anyone whom Hobbs would consider an enemy, and was glad they were supposed to be on the same side. 

Behind him, he heard Phoenix get out of the car. 

“Who the fuck is that guy?” said a voice from the back of the pack. 

“Von Karma didn’t tell me you were bringing company,” Hobbs frowned. 

“We’re a team,” Miles said.

“All we need is a precision driver who knows the lay of the land.”

“And you’ve got him, but he also comes with me.”

Hobbs cocked his head in Phoenix's direction. “So what’s he do, then?”

Phoenix stepped up, shoving his hands nonchalantly into the pockets of his hoodie. “Gambling, information, fast talking, whatever you need.”

“Hey, we already got one of those.” The voice that had spoken earlier muscled his way to the front. “What you gotta say about that?”

Phoenix smirked. “I can get you out of any situation this guy gets you in, because I see you've already got your comic relief.” The quip earned him a few cackles scattered throughout the group. 

“Ha-hah! He burned you good, Roman, and he barely even know you.” Miles recognized the man seated between four computer monitors at the side of the room as Tej Parker, a well-known specialist import auto mechanic from Miami. Tej was one of the few people this side of the Atlantic to own a Koenigsegg CCXR.

“Well, he got the advantage, ‘cause he been reading some dossiers or shit on us,” Roman said, eyeing both the newcomers and the McLaren suspiciously. “You might have a nice ride, but that don’t mean you can really drive. What we got on these guys, Ramsey?”

“Hold on, just downloading the data now,” said a young woman with an English accent sitting next to Tej. “Miles Edgeworth. Thirty-two years old, adjunct lecturer at Ivy University. Former public prosecutor of the District of L.A. County. One arrest on suspicion of murder, but all charges cleared in trial. A trial where that other bloke defended him.”

“They’re lawyers?” said Roman incredulously. 

Ramsey continued. “Phoenix Wright, also thirty-two years old. Former defense attorney, best known for cross-examining a parrot on the witness stand, but since disbarred for obstruction of justice for presenting falsified evidence in court. Currently unemployed.”

Hobbs raised an eyebrow at Miles. “You brought your attorney with you?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Miles replied coolly.

“No other evidence of criminal activity on their records. Not even speeding violations in the past ten years,” Ramsey concluded.

“That you know of,” Phoenix said. 

“Yo, is this the best that Interpol can come up with?” Roman asked. “A couple of lawyers? Are we serious?”

“They came with high recommendations from two of their agents,” Hobbs said.

“But do you trust their agents?” Roman pressed.

“Not as far as I can throw 'em,” replied Hobbs with a steely look at both Miles and Phoenix. Miles had the impression that Hobbs might actually be able to pick him up and throw him quite far. 

“Look,” Roman began, “maybe we should call Brian—”

“No!” The word echoed throughout the warehouse. A man with a shaved head and wearing a black sleeveless shirt emerged from the shadows. The silver cross that dangled from his neck caught the afternoon light that shone through the dusty windows as he sauntered his way up to the McLaren. Miles remembered seeing his mugshot and his wanted poster years ago across his desk. Dominic Toretto—auto mechanic, street racer, smuggler, escaped convict. All of his crimes had been pardoned under mysterious circumstances, perhaps related to the fact that he was now apparently a free agent working with the DSS. “Whatever we do, we do without Brian.”

Miles knew his type, rough and tumble criminals from the bad parts of town, surviving off their tough guy image. Was Toretto truly any different from the dozens he had put behind bars in his former life? Maybe he was just a little more clever, having survived this long, having made enough of a name for himself to work under the feds. 

Miles wasn’t going to let himself be intimidated, not as the gang parted to let Toretto pass. He held his ground and met the man’s stare as Toretto stepped right up to him. He was only a couple of inches taller.

They regarded each other silently. 

“You two don’t seem the type to run with the likes of us,” said Toretto slowly, his voice deep and gravelly. “Give me a good reason to let you on the team.”

“We’ve got a score to settle with the spy you’re after.”

“What kind of score?”

Miles smiled. “Consider it personal. Is that going to be a problem?”

“We don’t got problems with personal. But we also don’t know if we can trust you.”

“Then race me,” Miles suggested simply.

The corner of Toretto’s mouth quirked upward.

“I’ll show you who I am.”

Toretto snorted like he’d heard a line like that before. He nodded once, without hesitation. “You’re on.”

“What? Now?” asked Ramsey. Another woman now stood beside her, with falls of dark hair framing her face and a tough, stony stare. Leticia Ortiz, 'Letty' for short.

“Why not?” Letty said. 

With a smirk Miles stepped back, and went to lean against his McLaren, as two Dominicans on Toretto’s crew planned out a course with their boss in rapid-fire Spanish. Hobbs was giving him a disapproving look, probably for suggesting the race, but his doubts about Miles’ driving commitment seemed to trump his concern about any traffic infringements.

“Are you sure about this?” Phoenix asked quietly, joining him.

“I’m sure.”

“You’ve never street raced before.”

“That you know of,” replied Miles with a secretive smile. He let his husband chew on that for a while, as they waited for the race to begin.

* * *

They revved at the start line, the high pitched roar of Miles’ twin turbocharged V8 singing in harmony against the deep rumble of Toretto’s vintage, heavily-modified Dodge Charger. There was no way that the Charger was producing anywhere near to his seven hundred brake horsepower and his almost six hundred torque even with the nitrous that was likely installed, but this was a street race, not a drag race. He’d be lucky to be able to keep his foot down on the accelerator for longer than even a second on most of their course.

He returned one final gaze of Toretto’s, indicating that he was ready. He spared a glance for Phoenix, who gathered outside with the rest of Toretto’s crew, managing to keep his worry mostly from his face, replacing it with bravado instead. That’s my man, thought Miles. 

Phoenix winked at him. Bring it home. 

Miles entertained the thought of beating Toretto at his own game. It was possible, in something like this with no rules. He had to believe that he could win, or else there was no point in having agreed to Franziska’s proposal, in being here.

It was with great reluctance that Luke Hobbs stepped in front of the thundering vehicles and started the countdown. Miles had the McLaren in launch control, and as soon as Hobbes’ arms dropped, he lifted his foot off the brakes. The 720S leapt forward, its rear wheels squealing for grip against the hot, summer asphalt.

He had the advantage for now, the McLaren boasted zero to sixty in less than three seconds. The tires screamed as he turned the first corner out of the warehouse’s yard, and onto the empty Saturday streets of Vernon, the industrial part of town. In this first part of the race, he had to press every asset that the 720S gave him over Toretto’s Charger. Miles took off past the other warehouses down a long straight, upshifting with a twitch of his fingers on the paddle behind the steering wheel, gathering speed as the McLaren’s computers found the perfect shift point for its dual-clutch transmission. It was less dramatic than the manual clutch that was surely in the Charger, but the greater efficiency suited him just fine. He glanced up as he braked for the second corner, seeing the Charger closer than expected in the rear view mirror. His back wheels skid only a little as he turned again, a hard right onto Downey Road, parallel to the tracks of the Metro Rail.

It was here that he started encountering a few other cars, and Miles had to weave in and out of traffic, not shy of ducking across the double yellow lines to have to pass a particularly slow Kia. Here, on the streets, he couldn’t use the full power of the 720S, and he had to rely instead on his ability to read the flow of traffic, knowing where a hole just big enough for him might open up to dart through, trusting that it would close just as quickly behind, and hopefully cut off the Charger too.

With his heart pounding, he sailed clear through a red light, evading the cross traffic, the vehicles which squealed to a stop or swerved to avoid him. He heard a few crunches of metal on metal, and he ignored them. Behind him, the Charger was gaining. He might have some room to accelerate on the Long Beach Freeway for the short distance they were supposed to be on it, but likely not on a Saturday. He hoped it wouldn’t be at a standstill.

Miles kept an eye on Toretto, not trusting that he wasn’t going cut off early and take some shortcut somewhere. The ability to improvise was surely also a part of this race, and a part of him wondered whether the Charger was hanging behind him purposefully, just to watch, just to observe. There was nothing for it but to keep pressing forward.

As he suspected, the Charger found a burst of speed when they neared the end of Downey and had to corner hard left. Toretto pulled up beside him on the outside, of all places, mere inches from his bodywork. They threw up some tire smoke while rounding a minivan making the same turn on the protected light, and then sped past it onto Slauson. 

It was emptier than expected for a central commercial avenue cutting through a residential district, and soon Miles realized why.

“Oh sh—” he swore as he realized that Leo and Santos, who had done the plotting for the route, hadn’t done their research properly, and nobody else had bothered to double check their work, least of all himself. The road was closed for a neighborhood festival of some sort. It was too late to turn back now, as the “Road Closed” signs that blocked his way had already flown over his hood. They crashed onto the windshield of Toretto’s car, and the Charger swerved left and right to shake them off. 

Screams sounded as the people around him dived to avoid the McLaren, and he had to swerve around those who were slower. Luckily the festival was winding down, otherwise he shuddered to think that he might have been the cause of some loss of life. The next street he saw, he turned another hard left, driving straight through an empty tent, his car throwing a shower of plastic chairs up into the air. Change of plans, he had to find some other way onto the freeway. 

He turned onto a parallel road, and roared down a residential avenue, keeping an eye on either side to make sure that no children were bouncing balls into the street. Miles emerged after a few blocks into Atlantic, and when he checked his mirror, realized that the Charger had disappeared, nowhere to be seen. He turned north, wondering whether he had left Toretto behind or if somehow Toretto had snuck in front of him, but he soon had his answer as he caught the tail lights of the Charger similarly emerging from another street parallel to Slauson, ahead of him. It accelerated as it sped down the road, and Miles had to step on it to keep the Charger in view between the other cars making their way down the boulevard, occasionally darting into turn lanes or empty bits of sidewalk to overtake. The low chassis of the McLaren complained whenever he jumped the curb, but thankfully returning the 720S in pristine condition hadn’t been one of Franziska’s stipulations. It was a pity to ding up the supercar, but Miles supposed that between Hobbs’ resources and the expertise of Toretto’s team, they’d be able to fix or modify anything.

As they approached the Los Angeles River, Miles tore his eyes from the back end of Charger, and stole a quick glance at the freeway. They were supposed to take the northbound, which was completely at a standstill. The southbound side, on the other hand was relatively clear, just the opposite of what he wanted. He quickly recalculated his route in his head, but it was clear that Toretto had no intentions of deviating from their plan.

“He’s insane!” Miles exclaimed as Toretto gained speed, and darted left, sailing past the onramp for the northbound Long Beach freeway, but instead dodged oncoming traffic by heading up the exit ramp onto the southbound side. 

What should he do? He would lose precious time if he were to take a detour using the regular streets instead, and Toretto was already ahead him. He had the feeling that he would be off the team if he didn’t follow Toretto, unless the Charger happened to charge itself headlong into another car. 

Very well, then. When Miles Edgeworth was in, he went all in. 

Grimly, Miles turned his wheel hard left too, following suit with the Charger, who had gained a little more of a lead during his split-second moment of indecision. Cars honked as they skidded to either side of him. The good thing about following Toretto was that most people had the sense to brake when faced with an oncoming vintage Dodge Charger with a chrome supercharger protruding from its hood, so the path for him was therefore easier, with fewer and slower obstacles. Nevertheless, there was a near-miss as Miles had to swerve left and then right again, the vehicular equivalent of that awkward dance when meeting an oncoming person in a narrow passageway, only more lethal.

Try not to turn into traffic, he reminded himself wryly, as he shifted up a gear in hot pursuit of Toretto. They only had to make it through to the next exit over the bridge, before they’d be on Washington and then Downey again, heading back to the warehouse. Miles could make up some time on the final straight, though he knew that Toretto knew this too. If there was any time for him to give himself a nitrous boost, the final stretch would be it. 

He dodged another few cars as he gained a hair’s breadth on Toretto over the bridge that spanned the train depot. Then there it was, the exit—or rather, the entrance—onto Washington. Traffic merging onto the freeway honked at Toretto and him as they spun their cars around fearlessly in the screech and smoke of their tires. He chased the Charger back onto the street, as they raced down the many lanes of Washington Boulevard, ducking vans and taxis, pedestrians, and the odd cyclist. He had made up enough time to just be a couple of seconds behind the Charger as they rounded the final left back onto Downey, which now felt relatively empty after their highway encounter. 

Winning on the straight was not Miles’ style—he preferred to gain his time on the corners—but against an expert like Toretto, he would take any hundredths of a second he could shave off the Charger’s lead, anywhere. The acceleration of the McLaren pressed Miles back into the seat as he pushed his foot all the way down. In a few seconds he found himself alongside Toretto, as they sprinted forward toward the final corner. He spared a glance for Toretto, who looked him in the eye and smiled. It was then that Miles realized that he was smiling too. Grinning, even, wondrously, breathlessly, as they braked together, the force throwing them forward. Miles had never been about braking late, and he noted that Toretto followed the same philosophy too. Better to speed out of a corner than into it, and risk the precious tenths of a second understeering. 

They turned in together, the Charger blocking the inside line so he couldn’t sneak past. There was hardly enough time to gain speed again before they turned and skidded into the courtyard of their warehouse headquarters, braking hard. 

Miles still sat in the McLaren, heaving two breaths after the car had come to a halt. Toretto had stayed ahead of him, but he’d managed to keep up. They had almost entered the compound simultaneously. In a shabbier car he would have been five seconds behind, but that was the difference between him and a seasoned professional. All in all, Miles supposed he should be pleased with the result, though he had never found defeat easy to swallow, either in the courtroom or on the track.

The doors of the McLaren rose, and Miles stepped out. He had broken into a sweat, and his heart hammered in his chest, the thrill of the chase still flowering in the pit of his stomach. It had not seemed that long that he had been gone, and he felt like he might be ready for another match, if anyone else on Toretto’s crew wanted to take up the challenge. 

Toretto got out of the Charger, and they met between both cars. He cracked a smile, and extended his hand. 

“I like how you ride, Miles Edgeworth.”

Miles took his hand, matching the firmness of the man’s grip. “Likewise.”

There were a few impressed looks among the gang. Letty gave him a nod, before making her way back into the warehouse with Toretto. The two Dominicans exchanged a few lines in low tones, and even Roman Pearce had a newfound look of respect on his face. 

“I see you dinged him up a bit,” said Phoenix, eyeing the scrapes and dents on the body of the McLaren. 

Miles grimaced. It was a pity to mar such a beautiful body. Well, at least he didn’t have to feel too bad, because it wasn’t strictly his.

“What did you do?” 

Miles shrugged. “I ran a few red lights, jumped some curbs, and wove through oncoming traffic on the highway.”

“You what?!” Phoenix exclaimed, his jaw dropping. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Shh,” Miles put a finger against his lips. “It was nothing.”

“How can that be nothing? You could’ve gotten yourself killed!”

“It was fun,” Miles grinned. “Great fun.”

Phoenix blinked, and took a few seconds to digest that. “Next time, I’m coming with you.”

“Try not to scream, then,” replied Miles. 

Hobbs was waiting for them by the entrance to the warehouse. If there had been doubt in his gaze before, Miles no longer saw it there.

“Welcome to the team, Mr. Edgeworth, Mr. Wright.”

They both nodded back at him, and made their way into their new gang’s headquarters. 

This mission was going to be one hell of a ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Demi](http://nebunny.tumblr.com/) from the Narumitsu Discord Server for the beta, and for my friends for being enablers.
> 
>  **Cars mentioned in this chapter:**  
>  Miles Edgeworth's [McLaren 720S](https://imgur.com/a/XjyjOFJ)  
> Tej Parker's [Koenigsegg CCXR](https://imgur.com/a/8ru6q0T)  
> Dominic Toretto's [1970 Dodge Charger](https://imgur.com/a/QnMnNcl)


	2. Turnabout Dogfight

Dinner that night was a barbeque, a welcome feast in the traditional Toretto family style. It started solemn with Toretto, whom everyone just called “Dom”, leading the group in saying grace.

The fare was rough, and reminded Miles of the type of meal he would eat whenever he was busy on an investigation, that is, if he’d remembered to eat at all. There was Corona and some cheap tequila on offer, neither of which suited his palate, but the Corona was the lesser of the two evils. He gamely gave it a try, and then spent the next hour sitting around the table with Dom’s crew, nursing the rest of the half-bottle. He let Phoenix do what he did best, which was that talking he had boasted of. Miles listened with a small smile on his face as his husband, tipsy from too much tequila, made fast friends with Toretto’s crew and animatedly regaled Roman, Ramsey, and the Dominican pair—Tego Leo and Rico Santos—with tales of his past courtroom exploits. 

It was here amongst a team of friends, who had forged bonds as tight as family, that Miles thought of the one person he was missing this evening, his daughter. He and Phoenix, upon deciding to go on this mission, had sent Trucy to stay with Grandma—Phoenix’s mother, River. He had kissed her on the forehead as he’d left her in River’s living room, promising that they would pick her up as soon as they were finished. It had been a very long time since Miles had broken his routine, since they had missed a evening together as family. Miles took a swig of his warm Corona, and did his best not show his distaste.

He noticed that Hobbs was sitting a little separated from the rest of the crew, reviewing what he guessed were a stream of situation reports on a secure tablet. Eventually, Tej detached himself from the group and joined him, and they exchanged a few low words before looking meaningfully at the McLaren, which was now parked inside the warehouse along with the rest of the vehicles. That seemed like Miles’ cue to leave, so he uttered a soft, “Excuse me,” and went to see what Hobbs and Tej were discussing. 

“I see you talking about the McLaren,” Miles began, making his way toward them. 

“She’s a beauty,” said Tej, with a low whistle. 

“He,” Miles corrected. He felt quite strongly about the gender of his 720S. 

“He’s a beauty,” Tej continued, correcting himself without missing a beat, “but he’s a little too track for our extraction mission. His chassis is slung too low, and he’s a little too delicate to really throw down, you get me?”

“And it’s only got two seats,” Hobbs added.

“I see.” So they wanted him to pick a different car. “What did you have in mind?”

“Maybe something that addresses all those shortcomings,” suggested Hobbs.

Miles mentally went through the list of his preferred cars that fit the bill—good power, more seats, more robust, nice ride. Miles added that last one, because he was not about to spring for something with a hard suspension if he might be spending hours driving rough in it. 

“What have you got for me to pick from?”

“Whatever’s in the LAPD impound and the specialist vehicles from the DSS,” Tej replied.

“Can you get me a Bentley Continental GT Speed?” asked Miles.

The look on Tej’s face said it was not the typical go-to for this gang, but he went to his computer anyway, and quickly scanned the LAPD and DSS databases. “We’ve got nothing that's been confiscated, and it’s not DSS standard.” Next, Tej checked the inventory list of every Bentley dealer within a hundred-mile radius, but he shook his head. “Nothing we can get in the next seventy-two hours either.”

Dom approached, having overheard their conversation. “I know someone around town who has a Continental GT Speed...”

Miles had the feeling he knew where this was going. 

“...But you’re going to have to be brave enough to take it off him.”

“Is he willing to put it on the line?”

“He will be. For that.” Dom nodded at the McLaren. “You any good in the mountains?” 

Miles smirked. “Watch me.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Dom grinned. 

Miles was glad that he’d just had half a bottle of that Corona, because it just so happened that there was a meet on tonight.

* * *

He swore he could feel the bass beat from a mile away, the faint thumping growing louder as he rounded curve after curve on an otherwise deserted mountain road. As Miles neared the summit, following closely behind Dom, he saw the flashing lasers shimmering in the night sky that signaled the location of the gathering. There were two matte black Range Rovers that blocked off the road, but the bouncers seemed to recognize Dom’s Dodge Charger, and waved their little caravan of three on through. 

The thin carbon fiber body of the McLaren did little to block out the noise, which almost deafened him, now that he was at the source. Miles could hardly hear Phoenix’s awed exclamation from the passenger seat as he slowly rolled through behind the Charger, shading his eyes from the blinding purple and green lights which flashed across his vision. It was quite the crowd that had gathered, some two to three hundred by his reckoning, all jammed together in a large parking lot at the peak of the hills overlooking the Santa Clarita Valley. 

This was more an outdoor rave than it was any car meet that Miles had ever attended. In the remains of the summer heat, the party-goers, mostly women, had stripped off their clothes—or perhaps they hadn’t come with much to begin with—and there was the crush of skin on skin, ample bottoms clad in too-tight shorts and overflowing bosoms in too-small tube tops. Miles observed the crowd neutrally, recognizing when a scene was supposed to be titillating to a straight man. Was this a gathering to ogle cars or women, he wondered. He glided past a tall platinum blonde who danced with all the grace of a drunken giraffe on her platform high heels, which he thought could not possibly be comfortable for the poor girl. He glanced at Phoenix and noticed his husband’s head turn as he left the blonde behind him. 

Miles sighed. Briefly, he entertained the thought of opening the passenger door and giving Phoenix a shove out.

“Are you jealous, Miles?” Phoenix asked suddenly, his voice barely cutting across the throbbing ‘music.’ 

“What?! No! Of course not,” Miles protested. “That’s preposterous!”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Phoenix grin and lean over. “Don’t worry,” Phoenix whispered suggestively, right beside his ear so he could hear perfectly. ”I’ve only had eyes for you for a while now.”

Miles was about to protest again that he wasn't the least bit jealous and that he didn’t mind his husband doing a bit of window shopping, but then Phoenix nibbled his earlobe. He emitted a noise of that was halfway between a moan and a growl of frustration.

“I have to race tonight!” he glared at Phoenix, but he must not have put enough enmity into it, because Phoenix just laughed and ran a hand up his thigh. 

Miles sucked in a deep breath. 

Because Toretto was famous around here, and even a personal friend of the race organizer, they got to park their cars near the center of the throng. Miles thanked that the darkness hid most of the damage on the McLaren. 

It was just a small group that had decided to come tonight—he and Phoenix, Dom and Letty, and Roman Pearce, because he liked to party. The rest of the crew had opted to stay back at headquarters, rather than drive all the way up to Santa Clarita in the middle of the night. Miles couldn’t blame them. He let Dom do all the talking with a man called Hector, who owned a few of the cars that were on display. Sandwiched between a brand new Jaguar F-type and a Porsche Cayman GTS, a midnight blue Bentley Continental GT Speed caught his eye. 

He and Phoenix leaned against the outside of the McLaren as it drew a crowd of admirers. Miles tried not to think that Phoenix might be admiring some of the women, but true to his word, Phoenix had kept his eyes on him the entire time. He bounced a little to the beat even with his hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, with that familiar wry smile on his face that meant he knew something that Miles didn’t. 

“What?” Miles asked with a frown. 

Phoenix shook his head. “You race first, then I’ll tell you. Don’t wanna distract you.”

Miles blew out a sigh, and wondered why Phoenix had chosen this particular moment to be infuriating. He waited quietly, folding his arms across his chest and refusing to engage with the music. 

Eventually, Dom waved him over, and introduced Vincent, Hector’s little brother and the owner of the Continental.

“Nice 720S you got there,” said the portly man, sporting a sparse beard, a gold chain, and a full suit. “Toretto says you’re eyeing my Bentley, though.”

“I heard it’s a nice ride,” Miles replied, hoping that this wasn’t the type of guy where he would have to completely sanitize the interior of the Bentley before having to drive it off.

“Ah, smooth and comfortable as silk,” said Vincent with a happy sigh. “You’d be stupid to let go of your McLaren for it though.”

Miles flashed his teeth. “Not if you assume I’m winning.”

Vincent chuckled. “I know these mountain roads like the back of my hand,” he warned.

“I’d say that’s a suitable handicap for the race,” returned Miles evenly. “I’ll even give you a five-second head start.”

Vincent snorted and turned to Toretto. “Who the hell does this guy think he is? Is he an idiot or something?”

Dom shrugged. “Why don’t you see for yourself?” 

“Fine,” Vincent smiled magnanimously, and extended his hand. “I look forward to becoming the new owner of that McLaren.”

“We’ll see.”

They shook.

* * *

Corners were where Miles Edgeworth shone. But he felt the faintest shadow of doubt about his chances at victory, as he watched the Bentley take off into the darkness and its taillights disappear around the first corner. It was a luxury grand tourer, a car built for comfort and the occasional burst of power, and so would be ungainly and heavy on a narrow mountain pass such as this one. He had the McLaren with its superior engineering and racing pedigree on his side. But the Bentley, large though it was, would have the advantage in blocking any attempts at overtaking. Miles had his work cut out for him, even though the handicap was the only way of making the race fair enough that Vincent would agree to it. 

“Are you sure about those five seconds?” asked Phoenix nervously from the passenger seat. 

The Bentley had now disappeared entirely. 

“Shut up and hold on,” was all that Miles said when the flag came down and the McLaren leapt forward. 

Phoenix had insisted on coming, having declared that if Miles was going to roll down a hill and kill himself then he might as well be along for the ride too. Miles had protested that wasn’t the right reason to ride shotgun—they had a daughter to finish raising, for crying out loud—but he had acquiesced in the end, because he had no intention of killing himself in this race. He would show his husband just how good he was on the twisty canyon roads.

Whatever shout was on its way out from Phoenix’s lungs froze halfway en route to its escape, as the sheer force of the acceleration of the 720S shoved him back into his seat. Miles flicked up the gears, pleased with the McLaren’s high-pitched song as he shot off into the dark.

Their course would be a combined downhill and uphill. At the end of the winding descent at the base of the mountain, they were supposed to circle around a traffic cone and come back up exactly the way they’d come, ending back at their starting line for all to see whether it would be Miles winning a Bentley or Vincent winning a McLaren. Miles had reviewed the course briefly on his phone before starting the race, so he knew the order of the corners and where he was supposed to turn around. As for the lines he was supposed to take, the speed to come in and out of the corners, well, he’d just have to figure those out on the fly. 

Phoenix let out a choked noise as Miles slammed on the brakes and took the first turn hard, the McLaren’s clever computers only letting the tires emit a brief screech. Phoenix, unprepared for the g-forces, was thrown to the side and slammed his head against the window. 

“I said, hold on!” growled Miles, gritting his teeth as he felt the McLaren’s four wheels dig into the asphalt for grip as he straightened and put his foot down on the throttle. 

Phoenix held on for dear life on the handle above the door, and tensed as they approached the next corner, letting out only small whimper as Miles cornered so hard that his wheels crossed the white lines marking the edge of the road, and his bumper almost kissed the inside railing. Miles cleared the turn, and rocketed the McLaren forth into the blackness of the night, relying only on the dim light of the crescent moon, the illumination of his headlights, and his memory for guidance. 

The road began to slope, and they began the downhill in earnest. The course narrowed as they wound their way down the canyon, twisting and turning in a long journey that snaked toward the base of the hills. As it was night, there was little for Miles to see on either side of his car as he dashed onward, save for the inky ravine on his right, the precipice that any miscalculation might send them careening over. To his left, there was the mountain with a light dusting of shadowy bush obscuring the unforgiving limestone beneath. Ahead of him, he had yet to see any shade or sign of the Bentley’s taillights, which began to worry him.

Miles knew that if he peered down over the edge of the steep hills now, he might be able to make out the Bentley somewhere below him, but he needed those precious split-seconds to analyze the road for any stray pothole, any stray stone that might send his track-designed McLaren skidding into certain disaster. At least Phoenix could make himself useful. 

“Where is he?” Miles asked. “Do you see him?”

“I see him! He’s going into a tight turn!”

Miles let out a breath of relief. The Bentley couldn’t be that far ahead then, as there were supposed to to be five hairpins next. He kept himself calm as he navigated the first, downshifting with the flick of the paddle, finding the outside and then turning in as his tires squealed for purchase. The McLaren’s trademark brake-steer system swung his nose around the corner efficiently as he accelerated out. Miles calmly repeated the protocol—out, in, out—gaining on the Bentley over each successive corner.

On the straightaway before the final turn, he let his McLaren charge forward with full power, and almost caught up to the Bentley. It straddled the middle of the road, swinging its back end to and fro, not giving him a chance to overtake. 

Miles turned off his headlights. 

“What are you doing?” Phoenix cried, but Miles ignored him. 

It seemed a little underhanded to play mind games, but he was not about to lose this match. With his headlights off, he would have a better chance of overtaking the Bentley, particularly as Vincent wouldn’t be able to see him in the darkness, and wouldn't know which side his attack might come from.

They bounded into the final corner—this one was a wide and gentle curve—almost in synchrony, but the Bentley threw itself sideways into a drift, throwing up a bunch of tire smoke, despite not knowing where McLaren was. Miles had to let off the throttle to avoid a collision, as any opportunity to overtake, even on the outside, was effectively obstructed by the wide body of the Continental. He had been hoping that Vincent might understeer on this turn and afford him the chance to sneak past on the inside, but true to the man's word, Vincent knew this course like the back of his hand.

Now that Miles had caught up, he was certain that Vincent would use the swarthy bulk of the Bentley to prevent him from overtaking on the way back up the mountain too. Even with his lights off, he was still at a disadvantage. 

That left only one place where Miles stood a any chance of turning this race about.

“Are you ready for a gamble?” he asked his husband. 

“What?” said Phoenix. It was all the warning he was given.

There was just a short straight left before the turnaround, a small traffic cone planted in the center of the narrow, two-lane road. An ordinary maneuver would be to take the outside of the lane, slide around the cone in a 180-degree turn, and then squeal back up the mountain on the other side of the road. But Miles couldn’t afford to do that behind the Bentley and let it keep the lead. Instead of staying behind it as they approached, he pulled alongside Vincent silently, the Bentley unaware of his presence. It was too late for the Bentley to do anything to block him by the time that Miles flipped his lights back on. They were side by side now, and gaining in speed as they sprinted forward. 

“Miles, what are you doing?”

The little orange cone in the center of the road materialized in their pooled headlights. 

“Miles?”

He slammed on his brakes, the McLaren still abreast the Bentley. They entered the spin turn at almost the same time, heading toward the same point, their noses swinging in together. 

“Fuck!” Phoenix shouted. 

Their cars were going to collide. 

The McLaren had the advantage of power, so Miles had headed into the turn a split second faster, stealing the line around the cone first. His heart leapt into his throat, as the headlights of the Bentley shone through his windshield, but he kept his hands steady on the steering wheel. He waited for the crunch, the inevitable crash and rebound of their sides slamming into each other, but the Bentley braked and swerved at the last moment, swinging wide, allowing his little McLaren mere inches of space to circle around the cone and then speed back up the way it came. 

In his mirrors, Miles saw the Bentley fishtail before righting itself and dashing in pursuit.

Beside him, Phoenix’s jaw had dropped open, and his face had contorted in a soundless scream. There was no time for Miles to comfort his husband—he had told Phoenix to hold on, after all—and he raced off into the night. He was lighter, more agile, with more horsepower than the Bentley. If he could keep his lead, he could win this.

Miles’ heart was still hammering in his chest as he thundered past the start line to a cheering crowd. As soon as he stopped, the party-goers mobbed his car, throwing their arms up in the air with shouts of drunken joy. Phoenix was trembling. Miles found he had another insane grin on his face, and his hands were quivering ever so slightly too when he let go of the steering wheel. 

“That was fucking crazy,” Phoenix gasped, shooting Miles a look of disbelief. “How did you know he would swerve?”

“I didn’t,” Miles replied.

The crowd parted enough for him to open the doors when the Bentley pulled up beside him. Miles got out, expecting Vincent to be furious, expecting Dom to have to intervene on a gentleman’s agreement, but Vincent seemed just as stunned as Phoenix. 

“You’ve got some serious _cojones,_ brother. I ain’t never seen anybody pull a move like that,” said Vincent with admiration. “Here.” 

Miles caught the keys that Vincent tossed him. 

“It’s yours. You deserve it, you crazy son of a bitch.”

“Thank you.” Miles had never been called a 'crazy son of a bitch’ before. He would have hated the insult to his late mother had he been called that in any other context than this. Without much ado, but with a little smug smile, he put the keys to his new Bentley in the pocket of his jeans. 

“Nice going,” said Letty, coming up to congratulate him as the crowd followed Vincent back to the party. She extended her hand and he took it. She pulled him in and smacked him on the arm. Miles stiffened for just a second before he relaxed. “Five seconds is a big lead. I didn’t think you’d be able to pull it off. Where did you overtake him?”

“The spin turn at the cone,” Miles replied. Letty shot him a confused look, so he illustrated with his hands, the maneuver where both cars had turned in together that had apparently earned him his _cojones_.

“You are a crazy son of a bitch,” said Dom with a grin. He patted Miles on the arm too. “Enjoy your new Bentley.” With that, he left with Letty to join the party, leaving Miles and Phoenix mostly alone. They had no idea where Roman had gone off to, but there was a spot on the makeshift dance floor where a few women seemed to be scurrying away from in a hurry, so probably somewhere around there.

Miles went back to his husband, who was peering into their new Bentley, just starting to recover from their small adventure. “Are you alright, Phoenix?”

“No, I think I died back there.” Phoenix managed a wry smile. 

Well, if his sarcasm was starting to come back, he’d be fine soon.

“Do you always drive like that when I’m not looking, Miles?”

Miles bristled. “No, of course not. I follow all traffic laws when I chauffeur Trucy to and from school.” 

“Uh-huh,” said Phoenix, unconvinced. “Well, just as long as you pay her speeding tickets when she learns how to drive.” 

Miles folded his arms across his chest. “She can pay her own speeding tickets,” he sniffed. “Besides, you don't get to be the only person who gets to throw himself headlong into something and just hope for it to work out somehow.”

Phoenix raised his eyebrows. “Do I do that?”

“You jumped off of a burning bridge to save Maya.”

“Oh yeah, I did kind of go for it that time,” admitted Phoenix, after a moment’s consideration. His broke into a wide grin as he accepted Miles’ conclusion. “I guess that makes us quite the pair.”

Miles smiled. “It sure does.” 

He put his hands possessively on Phoenix’s hips and pulled him close. He closed the last bit of distance between them, nuzzling Phoenix’s nose until his husband’s mouth opened and he could capture it. Phoenix was swaying slightly to the throbbing bass, and they started moving along with it, still wired with all the adrenaline from the race, kissing breathlessly and grinding their hips together to the beat. It was barely music, but it had awakened something primal in Miles’ brain. Desire flared in rhythmic undulations as he dug his fingers into the flesh of Phoenix’s ass. He found it strangely liberating to be this intimate with Phoenix out in the open under the stars, pressing their bodies together where anyone out in the crowd could see them, but nobody would care. Miles felt another layer of thrill bloom in the pit of his stomach as Phoenix ran a hand between his thighs and palmed him gently. 

Then he remembered something. “What was it you wanted to tell me after the race?”

Phoenix smirked. “I wanted to ask if you were interested in finding out what it’s like to have sex in a Bentley.”

Miles laughed. 

He opened the door to the Continental, shoved Phoenix into the driver’s seat, and then climbed on top of him. He bent down and fumbled a bit with the controls, sliding and tilting the seat back so the steering wheel wouldn’t be prodding him in the ass. Phoenix grinned and pulled him down, nipping at all the favorite places on his neck. Miles moaned with pleasure as his hands drifted from the stubble at Phoenix’s chin to run down the planes of his chest and to the bulge that was also beginning to harden between his legs. It was a good thing they had little bit of privacy now. Together, they slid their pants and underwear down to their thighs. Miles closed his eyes with a contented sigh as Phoenix bit him the jaw and wrapped his fingers around them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who are also familiar with "Initial D" will recognize the turning-off-your-headlights thing. The spin turn Miles Edgeworth executed was also inspired by the [FD3S vs. R34 race in "Initial D: Fourth Stage"](https://youtu.be/8HPJyiq1Qg8?t=1031). I was very tempted to title this chapter "The Ace and the Attorney: L.A. Drift", but thankfully I had enough sense to refrain. 
> 
> Many thanks to [naye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naye) for her beta and her endless enabling of my poor life choices.
> 
>  **Cars mentioned in this chapter:**  
>  Miles Edgeworth's [Bentley Continental GT Speed](https://imgur.com/a/X2FLvfB)  
> Vincent's [Jaguar F-Type](https://imgur.com/a/NzGUdnE)  
> Vincent's [Porsche Cayman GTS](https://imgur.com/a/RwpRuCH)


	3. Hoodwinked

Miles awoke grumpy. Franziska had told him they’d be staying with Hobbs and Toretto’s team while they were on this assignment, but she had failed to disclose that the satellite DSS workshop they were in just had barracks, and not proper, private sleeping quarters. He would’ve been willing settle for one of the motels by the side of the highway for a shot at some real privacy with his husband, but he didn’t want to risk the bedbugs, or the security risk that posed to their operation. So he’d had to pass the night quite uncomfortably in a narrow bunk, whose metal frame squeaked horribly any time that he or Phoenix, on the bunk above him, tried to move or turn.

The warehouse had two showers, but only in the military style—just two shower heads facing each other in a tiny tiled room—so out of politeness, and a desire to spare himself a world of awkwardness, Miles let Ramsey jump ahead of him in line and share the facility with Letty. He could shower with Phoenix, whenever it was that his husband would be getting up.

Miles, attired only his pajamas like a barbarian, had no choice but to shuffle to the large table in the middle of the warehouse, which seemed to be both the social and operational center of Toretto’s team. Dom was already awake and dressed, and handing out what almost passed for breakfast, purchased from the nearest IHOP.

“You look like hell.” Dom slid over a paper cup of coffee.

“I’m sure I’ll get used to the barracks,” Miles lied. He was certain that Toretto’s crew had to make do with worse before, so he did not want to make a big deal out of his lack of sleep.

He downed the coffee, which tasted like a couple pinches of dirt had been mixed in with boiling water. He longed for his own bed, his tea, and his nice kitchen in his house in the Hollywood Hills. He also longed for the sound of a roaring exhaust, the exhilaration of pushing an engine to the maximum, and watching the needle of the tachometer climb into the red zone. One of those would surely happen soon, Miles supposed.

It was noon before everyone was awake, clean, and assembled. Hobbs had brought in a team of mechanics to retrofit their cars and install some roll cages and armor plating in the doors, while he and Toretto’s crew were briefed by Hobbs on their mission.

“The objective is to capture the international spy known as the Phantom. We believe that they’ve been responsible for twenty high-profile deaths in the past five years, everyone from investment bankers to diplomatic personnel from a handful of powerful countries—the USA, Germany, Zheng Fa, and so on.”

Hobbs pulled up an array of photographs of the Phantom’s past victims, juxtaposed upon autopsy images. He shuffled through them quickly to drive home the point that there were many and they had been important. Dust motes danced in front of the projector lens as Hobbs cycled to the final picture, one that Miles recognized instantly.

“Interpol believes that the Phantom has a special interest in someone being held at Lompoc Federal Penitentiary, a former prosecutor by the name of Simon Blackquill.”

“What’s he in for?” Roman asked.

“Murder,” Hobbs replied shortly.

Roman shook his head. “Man, lawyers these days are crooked as shit.”

Phoenix and Miles glanced at each other, but in this Dark Age, they couldn’t begrudge him that opinion.

“Former colleague of yours?” Dom asked, turning to Miles.

“He started after I retired,” he replied. “I know of him, but we’ve never met.”

Roman shrugged. “So what's this Blackquill dude have to do with the spy, then?”

“We understand he possesses information that the spy is interested in. Something that would reveal their identity,” answered Hobbs.

“...which they would probably want to keep hidden,” Roman nodded.

“That’s generally how a spy works,” said Tej, with his characteristic laconic sarcasm. “You’re not supposed to know they’re a spy.”

Roman scowled. “I know that, man. Why you gotta be all, ‘that’s how a spy works,’ like I don’t know?”

Before the argument between Tej and Roman could escalate, Hobbs glared at them both and continued. “Tomorrow at noon, there will be three prisoners from Lompoc on death row who are due to be transferred to Santa Muerte Prison. We believe the Phantom will attempt an intercept, and that’s when we’ll capture them.”

“We?” said Ramsey. “Some of us are just civilians.”

“An elite DSS team will be doing the capturing,” Hobbs explained. “The main prison transport will be a decoy that draws the Phantom’s attention. Dom, your team will be transporting the real Simon Blackquill. We’re not anticipating trouble, but we need your crew to be prepared, just in case.”

“Are we expecting one man or a team?” asked Dom.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Roman snorted. “You don’t even know if we gonna get hit by one dude or a whole goddamn convoy?”

“Hope for the dude, plan the convoy,” said Hobbs flatly.

Dom turned to Ramsey and Tej. “You two know anything about this Phantom?”

Tej shook his head.

“We’ve heard of the Phantom the circles I run in,” Ramsey offered, “because they’re really good at disguising their identity both online and off. But I don’t have a clue who they really are, and if I don’t know then I can’t find them.”

“But if you got anything could you use God’s Eye?” suggested Roman.

“That depends on what it is,” Ramsey replied, “but I gave God’s Eye to a certain Nobody. Do you want to call him up and ask nicely if we can use it? 'Pretty please, it's really important?’”

“All right, no need to get all snippy,” Roman grumbled, and then turned to Hobbs expectantly.

Hobbs blinked. “You think I’m going to call this that far up the chain?”

“Can nobody here just fucking say ‘no’ instead of making a big-ass deal about it?” Roman snapped, to a sea of unimpressed stares. Roman threw up his hands up in disgust.

Miles leaned forward in his chair, just as Roman pushed himself away and sulked. "Is anybody going to fill us in on who this Nobody is?"

"Nobody you wanna know," Tej replied.

Miles scowled at Tej. Did he really think that he was going to be satisfied with a pun instead of a real answer?

"No, really," Tej clarified, "Mr. Nobody is literally not supposed to exist. There are no government records on him or his department. He is literally nobody."

Miles raised an eyebrow, it seemed like a tall tale, but the somber looks around the table, including from Hobbs, indicated it was no practical joke.

"And God's Eye?" asked Phoenix.

Everyone turned to Ramsey, who simply shrugged. "I coded a sophisticated surveillance program that can find anybody anywhere on the planet by hacking into anything with a camera or microphone, but I was forced to hand it over to Mr. Nobody."

"Oh," said Miles quietly, sitting back in his chair. He folded his arms across his chest, slowly beginning to process the troubling ramifications of what Ramsey had just revealed.

"Back to Blackquill," said Dom, taking charge. He regarded his team each in turn, holding their gaze steadily. Toretto’s seemed to ask Miles if were prepared. He was. 

“So we take him, and we hope for the worst.”

Hobbs broke into a grim smile. “Exactly.”

Then they pulled their chairs closer and got down to planning in earnest.

* * *

Miles was glad for the Bentley Continental’s comfortable interior and robust air conditioning, as he waited near the rear annex of Lompoc Federal. The desert air was blistering in the summer Southern Californian heat, shimmering above the hot asphalt. He was never more glad than now for the cool air which blew out of the vents as he waited. Letty was beside him in a custom gunmetal gray Chevy Camaro, with the driver’s side window rolled down, and her arm resting out the window. She was slapping the side of her car to the beat of something that sounded suspiciously like reggaeton, blasted loud enough that even Miles could feel it vibrate through the body of the Bentley with the doors and windows closed. Meanwhile, on his other side, Dom waited quietly with his windows closed, in a brand new matte black Dodge Challenger that managed to look just as menacing as the man behind the wheel.

Their plan was a simple one, to keep as few parts as possible from going awry. There would be a small standard-issue prison transport stuffed with DSS agents and accompanied by the usual police escort. They were expecting this to draw the Phantom’s attention, and when attacked, the DSS elite would spring into action and do what they did best—subdue, incapacitate, capture.

Their team, or more specifically, himself and Phoenix, would be transporting Simon Blackquill. For an added bit of realism, they would have the other two prisoners played by Roman, who would be riding with Dom, and Tej, who would be riding with Letty. They would split into three groups and three different routes to Santa Muerte, to thin out the Phantoms resources, should they realize, or worse, overcome the agents traveling as the decoy. Hobbs and Ramsey, in an imposing DSS-issue Mercedes G63 would accompany Dom, in an effort to make it look like they might be carrying Blackquill, while Letty would be travelling unescorted, because she insisted that she and Tej could handle themselves, as well the heavy artillery hidden in the trunk of the Camaro. Finally, Miles would drive off in the Bentley and take a circuitous route to Santa Muerte via the coastal highway, looking for all the world like he was just having a leisurely pleasure cruise. He would be followed by Leo and Santos at a respectable distance in their Alfa Romeo Giulia, bearing more heavy artillery, in case he needed back-up.

If they ever found the Phantom hot on their tails, the instructions were clear. Drive. Evade. Hold out for the cavalry.

Miles figured he could do that.

At noon sharp, three men in orange prison jumpsuits were led out by the prison wardens, and accompanied by Phoenix, striding alongside Hobbs. As planned, Tej was shoved unceremoniously in with Letty, and Roman with Dom, while Blackquill, still cuffed by his wrists and ankles, was thrust in the backseat of the Bentley. The Lompoc wardens helped tie him down to the restraints they had installed in the car, simple loops that secured his chains. Throughout this process he waited quietly. Miles might have used the word ‘docile’, but Blackquill was anything but as he looked about himself with his dark eyes alert and intelligent. A small smile spread on his face as he ascertained his situation. It seemed to amuse him.

“Are you sure it’s safe to sit beside me?” he asked simply, as Phoenix too, squeezed in the backseat.

“I’ve got this tranquilizer gun in case you decide to pull some funny business,” Phoenix replied.

Miles turned around. “Phoenix, you’re not supposed to be back there.”

“I’d rather be back here than risk Blackquill trying to escape and hijacking us. They gave me a tranquilizer gun at Lompoc, so I’ll handle him if he starts anything.” He winked. “Don’t worry, Miles.”

“All right.” Miles turned back around again reluctantly. Phoenix had a point, since he was the only one carrying a real prisoner, he didn’t want to risk Blackquill genuinely trying to escape, even though he thought it unlikely. If the man had wanted to avoid prison, he wouldn’t have confessed to his crime in the first place. But it was better to cover their all of their bases.

Dom looked over at him, and he nodded. They were ready.

Dom pulled out first, then Miles, with Letty following last. A block away from the penitentiary they were joined by their escorts, and when they came to the main road of the sleepy little town, they each split in three different directions, Miles’ Bentley heading toward the coastline with Leo and Santo’s red Alfa Romeo hovering protectively five car lengths behind them.

A few minutes into his journey, the two-way receiver in Miles’ cup holder crackled. “This is Hobbs, requesting check in.”

He picked it up. “Miles, checking in.” Dom and Letty checked in too. He took a deep breath and kept checking his speed, trying his best to put himself in the shoes of a lazy Sunday driver and travel at just a smidgen under the speed limit. The slowness was excruciating and Miles had to restrain his every instinct to just gun it as fast as the Bentley could go.

Behind him, Phoenix had not relaxed one bit, and kept his attention trained on Blackquill, in case the man was going to do something. Over the years, he and Phoenix had pored over every last shred of evidence, every word and detail of the court record from the UR-1 incident. He had collected everything he could in his nominal capacity as consultant to the Prosecutor’s Office, and he had gone over it with together with Phoenix. He had seen photographs of this man, the young promising prosecutor who had confessed to the murder of his own mentor, Metis Cykes, and refused to refute any of the evidence the police had collected against him, despite the insistence of Metis Cykes’ young daughter, Athena, that he was innocent, that he couldn’t be the murderer of her own mother. Miles knew that Simon Blackquill had been investigating the Phantom before he had been convicted. How much had he actually learned?

The languid speed of the city streets and the long red lights allowed Miles to observe Simon Blackquill from his rear-view mirror. He took note of the strange scars beneath his eyes—they had not been there when Blackquill’s last photograph had been taken. The man had an unruly mane of hair he kept tied in a short ponytail at the base of his skull, and the strands at his temple were starting to go prematurely gray. He looked older than he should have in his mid-twenties, with little mirth in his somber, watchful gaze.

Miles drove another block, nearing the freeway onramp. When he looked up, he met the prisoner’s stare in his mirror.

“Aren’t you the Demon Prosecutor?”

A crooked grin found its way up to Miles’ lips. He hadn't been called that in years. “I’ve left that behind me now.”

“To join with convicted felons and street racers? It is the Dark Age of the Law, indeed,” Blackquill smiled frostily.

Miles brows knit, but he did not let himself be baited by Blackquill’s words. He turned around and baited Blackquill right back instead. “Then what do you say I drop you off in the mountains?” he offered innocuously. “You don’t have to go all the way to Santa Muerte, you know.”

Blackquill snorted. “And where in this god-forsaken desert would I run to?”

“We’ll just say that the Phantom stole you away from me. I’m sure that someone like Dominic Toretto would have use of your skills.”

“If I deigned to apply them in the company of such rabble,” Blackquill retorted. “If you are not going to take me Santa Muerte, then I shall walk there myself.”

“You’d rather go back to prison than be free?” asked Phoenix incredulously.

“Something was entrusted to me that I must protect. I wouldn’t expect a pair of crooked attorneys to understand.” He turned to Phoenix and looked him dead in the eye. “Especially you.”

Miles raised his eyebrows. Such words usually raised Phoenix’s hackles, but his husband seemed to let Blackquill’s comment roll off of him, disarming the prisoner’s barbs with an easy-going chuckle. Miles had always assumed that the information Blackquill held on the Phantom’s identity was in his brain, something that he had memorized, something he knew. But now Miles wondered if this ‘something’ that Blackquill had so casually mentioned was a piece of evidence instead, something physically tangible that existed separately from his person, like a document or drive of some sort. Miles noted it mentally, but did not pursue the matter further. Besides, UR-1 didn’t strictly have anything to do with him, not yet.

“If you insist,” Miles said, with studied nonchalance. It suited him just fine if Blackquill wanted to behave himself in the backseat. He turned the Bentley softly onto the highway, letting the engine only rumble a little as he accelerated up to speed.

The sun shone overhead in the midst of a cloudless blue sky as he drove southwesterly at a leisurely clip. The first part of the freeway took him through the barren hills, past desolate yellow scrub and and scraggly bushes. This would be a terrible and barren place to get ambushed, he thought. He might have enjoyed this drive, had he not been on this mission, had he not been checking all his mirrors every few seconds, looking for any unusual traffic, listening for any unusual sounds. He checked in again over the radio when Hobbs prompted him. There was otherwise no chatter. There was just the red Alfa, driving at a steady pace behind him. Occasionally, he saw that it drifted near the center double-yellows, and he imagined Leo and Santos were arguing with each other, as it seemed they were wont to do.

He passed through the hills without event and merged onto the coastal highway. There was a quiet beach, a few families out in the sun with their young children, tottering through the sand while waving brightly colored plastic pails and shovels. He passed a large factory complex on the other side of the road, perhaps some natural gas refinery, large white silos and thick pipes propped up by metal latticework that must be sizzling in the sun. The ocean was on his right, beyond a vast empty strip of beach, its restless surface reflecting the afternoon light. Once he had passed the industrial complex, there was nothing but scrub and hills again on his left. It was a pleasant view, but he wasn’t of a mind to enjoy it.

He glanced up. Blackquill had gone quiet, and was staring off into the Pacific. He must not have seen it for years. Phoenix sat beside him, vigilantly observing his every move. That way his husband held his arm told Miles that he was still on alert, keeping the tranquilizer gun at the ready. Miles took a deep breath and settled in for a long drive.

He was just thinking that the radio had gone silent for a while, when he heard a thunderous boom behind him, the crunch of metal, and the screech of tires. Miles whipped his head around just in time to see through his back window that a black BMW M6 Gran Coupe had come rushing down from a cross street and had careened into the side of Leo and Santo’s Alfa Romeo, pinning it against the guardrail. An identical M6 followed it, and another and another, turning south onto the freeway, charging with a chorus of roars toward him. The figures were diminishing fast, but just before he turned back to slam his foot down on the throttle, Miles saw a group of men black balaclavas and black fatigues and brandishing a semi-automatic rifles at the Dominican pair.

“Shit,” was the only word Miles uttered. The Bentley gained a burst of speed.

“What the…” Blackquill breathed in disbelief. “Who is that?”

Miles snatched at his radio, too busy to answer, juggling the receiver in his hand, which had started to quiver. “They’ve found me! I’ve got at least three black BMW's on my tail!” he shouted. “They’ve taken out Leo and Santos, and they’ve got guns!”

He waited, but there was no response save for the occasional pop of static.

“Hobbs, do you copy?”

Static.

“Dom? ...Letty?...Does anybody copy?”

Miles threw the radio back down. Someone must be jamming their communications. And if there was one grand tourer that might match the speed of his Bentley, it was the BMW M6 Gran Coupe, of which he had seen three, so today was not Miles Edgeworth’s lucky day. He spared a glance at his mirrors—they were gaining on him.

“Phoenix!” he barked. “Try to call somebody.”

Phoenix quickly patted his pockets. “I didn’t bring my phone!”

Miles rolled his eyes.

“Give me yours!” 

“Hold on a second!” The Bentley lurched to the left as Miles dived into the oncoming lane, thundering past a Prius and pushing the Bentley up into successively higher gears.

He leapt back again as an oncoming pickup honked at him angrily. The spectre of the three BMW's had now fanned out into phalanx of five in hot pursuit. The last one in the formation clipped the Prius in the side, sending it crashing into the guardrail, careening into a spin.

Miles growled. They hadn’t had to do that, the rest of the BMW's had just passed it. He could only conclude that they had done that to some poor civilian just for fun, just for sport.

He gritted his teeth, and his fingers tightened around the steering wheel as rage began to bubble inside of him. He didn’t bother tossing his phone to Phoenix. He hadn’t gotten anybody’s number anyway, so it was pointless trying to call. He had no choice but to outrun and out-ride his pursuers. He had a six-liter, twelve cylinder engine and an eight-speed transmission. There was no way in hell he was going to let these five Beemers get the best of him. If he could hold on for ten more minutes, Miles figured he should be hitting the outskirts of Santa Barbara, and surely there he’d be able to draw some police attention to himself.

Miles raced onward, his heart pounding in his ears. Ten minutes was a long time, especially with a cadre of bad guys on his tail. The Continental hit its final gear, but he kept urging it forward, pushing his foot all the way down on the accelerator, not daring to slow even as the evaded the occasional spot of traffic. He had a singular mission now—lose the convoy behind him.

He hit a clear patch of road—room to accelerate. Before he could breathe a small sigh of relief, the entire Bentley shuddered and groaned. It started fishtailing.

Miles struggled for control, easing off the gas, and managed to right the Bentley once more, but he could feel that the car was now heavy and unresponsive. They had started to slow, even though he still had the throttle all the way down.

“What’s going on?” he shouted.

“They’ve got a grappling hook!” cried Phoenix.

“On my car?!”

“Yes!” snarled Blackquill, who had also turned to ascertain the situation.

Miles smelled burnt rubber from his own four wheels as he struggled forward, struggled to keep the Bentley from lurching into the guardrail just a foot and a half away from the passenger’s side. He was caught in a tug of war between his own engine and the M6 who had latched onto him and was braking, using all of its mass and the friction of its four tires to slow him, to stop him.

Miles downshifted for more power. There was the yawning groan of metal twisting, as the twelve cylinders of the Bentley heaved and roared for escape. The lid of the Continental’s trunk, where the grappling hook’s extended claws had embedded themselves, unlatched and began to stretch, caught between the pull of two opposing forces.

He was almost there. If he could find a burst of speed, he might get out of his yet. Miles watched the rear view, trying to find just the right moment to downshift again and—

A black BMW M6 pulled up alongside, sidling up easily, pulling just ahead until it slid smoothly into the space in front of him.

Oh no.

Red lights flashed, and Miles couldn’t react fast enough. Metal crumpled as the front of the Bentley collided with the rear of the M6. Undeterred, it continued to hold contact, physically pushing him backward as its comrade closed the gap from behind. He had mere seconds before being sandwiched between two BMW’s. 

Miles bet his chances on his brakes, and brought his foot down, locking the wheels of the Bentley with a loud screech. The Bentley shuddered and groaned as the M6 behind rear-ended them. The sheer force of the collision knocked it back, and for a fraction of a second, there was an opening. Miles accelerated again, turning his wheel to the side as he opened the throttle. The Bentley dived into the opposing lane, leaping forward with a sudden burst of power that ripped his trunk clear away.

Free again, Miles maneuvered to evade the M6 in front of him, squeezing every last bit of speed from the Continental. Immediately, two more BMW’s from the rear of the phalanx sprang into action. He had lost precious momentum when he had rear-ended the M6, and they caught up to him easily, flanking him and ramming him in the side, forcing him back into his lane. He wrestled with his car once more, trying to avoid the guardrail. Two could play that game, Miles thought. With equal parts grim desperation and satisfaction, he pitched the Bentley to the side, swiping the M6 aggressively in the side.

It worked for a moment, and the M6 drifted away from him. It slipped to the edge of the road, half of its wheels rolling onto the shoulder before it found its way back to the asphalt. BMW and Bentley met again, as they turned in toward the other, bashing their sides and rebounding off each other like charging rams locked in a battle for dominance.

There was no way that Miles could win in a skirmish based on brute force when they were nearly evenly matched. If he could just time it correctly and knock the M6 into an oncoming car, Miles thought—but no, that would risk the life of a innocent civilian, someone ordinary, someone just going about their day...

It was in that moment of hesitation that one of the black M6’s clipped him in the corner of his rear bumper, hard enough that it destabilized him despite the Bentley’s four-wheel drive system, and his nose hit the guardrail. Miles felt the Continental bounce and spin, the entire frame shuddering, the impact of the sudden deceleration slamming his body forward and sideways as the as the Bentley whirled around and tipped onto two wheels. He grappled for control, not allowing the Bentley to flip, but in the midst of his efforts, he hit the guardrail a second time. The Bentley continued to travel, dropping back on all four wheels, but still carried by its own inertia.

It was all over in a few long disorienting seconds. The Bentley finally came to a standstill, its hood crumpled from the force of the collision like a compacted aluminum can. Miles didn’t even know which way he was facing, because all he saw through the cracks in his windshield were the hoods of the five black M6’s surrounding him. He was trapped—they were trapped.

He pressed his lips together grimly and tried to shake some of the grogginess from his head before he spoke. His heart was racing, his blood rushing in his ears.

“Phoenix, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Phoenix answered flatly. “I still have Simon Blackquill too.”

Blackquill hissed, working his neck side to side. “Your driving is shit,” he growled. 

Miles ignored him. This had gone all wrong. He cast about quickly for his options, what could he do?

He heard the crackle and pop of static.

“Miles, come in! Someone’s been jamming our comms! Do you read? Do you copy?” It was Tej’s voice, over the receiver.

Miles watched as the doors of the BMW’s began to open and men clad in black fatigues emerged. He made a calculated decision, knowing that they might shoot him for moving, but he did it anyway. He snatched the radio.

“We’ve been captured! Five black M6’s have us surrounded just west of—”

“Hands up!” Ten men, their faces hidden by black balaclavas, raised ten rifles at him.

Miles dropped the receiver. It fell and rolled into the driver’s side footwell. He put his hands up, and tasted bitter defeat.

“Get out of car, and take prisoner with you!” The man on point, with a thick Eastern European accent—Russian, maybe— motioned with his gun. Miles hated guns, a mild phobia that was the result of a lingering traumatic event from his childhood. He had not been carrying weapons in the car.

Slowly, Miles opened the door and got out, putting his hands back up again. He heard Phoenix and Blackquill follow behind him.

“Turn around, hands on head!” the man commanded. Miles obeyed. He dreaded every moment that he had his back to the Phantom’s thugs, wondering if each second might be his last, suddenly and without announcement. At least he was facing Phoenix now, and could see that he was all right—his husband, with his hands up, a look of stony determination in his eyes. Blackquill stood beside him, holding his cuffed wrists aloft, his expression unreadable as he stared down the men with their rifles with a steely glare.

“I’m sorry,” Miles said quietly.

It was then that Blackquill made his move, shouting savagely and bringing his fists and the metal shackles around his wrists across Phoenix’s face in a brutal strike. Phoenix staggered and Blackquill closed in for a headbutt.

“Phoenix!” Miles shouted, as all the rifles trained on Blackquill instead.

Phoenix recovered quickly from the prisoner’s blow, sidestepping neatly as Blackquill’s headbutt hit empty air. He kneed the Blackquill efficiently in the crotch, and as the prisoner dropped, Phoenix pulled the tranquilizer gun out of his hoodie pocket. He shot Blackquill twice in rapid succession, once in the neck, once in the back.

“You...bastard...” Blackquill collapsed, already limp and unconscious by the time his body hit the ground.

Blood welled at the edge of Phoenix’s lip, and he wiped it very carefully, fingers trailing slowly, smearing his own blood across his skin. His hand lingered across the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

“He had more fight in him than I expected,” said Phoenix, narrowing his eyes at Blackquill’s still form.

Distantly, Miles realized he could hear the approach of a helicopter. His hopes soared—had Hobbs managed to scramble the cavalry?

Phoenix grinned lopsidedly, lifting his gaze to the sky, and then fixing his stare back on Miles. Phoenix’s eyes were blue, as blue as the ocean and piercing like a chilly winter’s morning, and they were cold. Colder and harder than Miles had ever seen them, a layer of azure ice frozen over a deep nothingness within. It was then, with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, that realization dawned.

“You’re not Phoenix.”

Phoenix’s face smiled. A brief spark of mirth lit up behind his dead stare, but then disappeared.

“Too late, sweetheart,” crooned Phoenix’s voice.

“Where is he?” Miles bellowed, panic rising. “What have you done to him?”

Phoenix sneered.

The helicopter was fast approaching. Miles could see it now as it cut across the sky, hovering low. The vast, dark body of the Black Hawk swept toward them in cacophonous drone, an echoing rumble that drowned out every other thought in his mind.

“Leave this one alive, I like him.” 

Hauling the unconscious Blackquill in his arms, the man who was wearing Phoenix’s face fired something from his watch. It looked like a small thread but glinted in the sunlight like metal, and traveled upwards into the sky, just as the helicopter moved into place above them. The metal line pulled taut. The ten other men surrounding him fired similar devices, and everyone was pulled up in the sky, ascending as the helicopter flew away, as their lines shortened. High above him, figures climbed aboard the helicopter. The wind in its wake whipped at Miles’ hair, the thrum of the metal blades buffeting his eardrums, until the sound of it began to fade as it glided out of view. It headed over the water in a vaguely southerly direction, perhaps back toward civilization, leaving Miles the only person left standing on the ground next to his ruined Bentley, surrounded by five empty black BMW M6’s.

And then it was silent.

Miles slammed his fist on the surface of the Bentley’s crumpled hood. “Shit!” Tears blurred his vision. He banged on the surface of the Continental again as if that might do something, feeling like he might crumple himself. But the practical side of his brain wouldn't let him wallow in self-pity for long, not when there were still things left to be done. He took a deep, choking breath and then dashed the tears from his eyes.

He performed each task robotically, assessing each situation, pinpointing a solution. He radioed the crew now that their comms were back. He told them that Blackquill and been taken, that the Phantom had disguised himself as Phoenix. Relief washed over him when Hobbs informed him that Phoenix Wright had just been found, bound and gagged and naked, in a janitorial closet back at Lompoc Federal. Tears stung his eyes again—thank god Phoenix was safe. Hobbs and Dom were coming to pick him up, backed up by the DSS and with a full forensics team.

The most urgent actions done, Miles stooped and collapsed into the seat of his destroyed Bentley. He waited, holding his head in his hands and planting his feet on the asphalt as he succumbed to the wave of emotion that crashed over him. It felt like forever that he was alone in the unforgiving summer heat, before he heard the faint roar of engines being pushed hard.

Dom stopped with a squeal of tires and got out of his Challenger. He laid a hand on Miles’ shoulder, a small gesture of comfort. Just that touch, the firm squeeze of Toretto’s fingers, parted the foggy stupor that had fallen over him.

“You okay?”

“I'm fine,” Miles lied, lifting his head. Toretto could tell he was bluffing, but didn't call it.

Dom helped him up with a proffered hand, and sauntered back to his car, ordering Roman to move to the backseat. Roman protested vociferously at first, but shut up and acquiesced immediately once he caught a good look at Miles.

Dom started the engine as Miles sank gratefully into the passenger’s seat.

“Let's go pick up your husband.”

Roman blinked. “Wait.” He leaned forward and tapped Miles on the shoulder. “You got a husband?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to [naye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naye) for the quick beta and the encouraging feedback.
> 
> **Cars mentioned in this chapter:**  
>  Letty Ortiz's [Chevrolet Camaro](https://imgur.com/a/tTmqbLB)  
> Dominic Toretto's [Dodge Challenger](https://imgur.com/a/p9i5aDs)  
> Luke Hobb's [Mercedes G63](https://imgur.com/a/D8XjjIC)  
> Tego Leo's [Alfa Romeo Giulia](https://imgur.com/a/JGf8EIO)  
> The Phantom's Henchmens' [BMW M6 Gran Coupe](https://imgur.com/a/itQrXKR)


	4. About to Get All Serious Up in Here

A glum silence settled over Dom’s crew as they arrived back at the warehouse just before sundown. No one said anything as they rolled into the building, parked their cars off to the side, and spilled out. Hobbs had gone, having peeled off their convoy some twenty minutes back, to brief and be debriefed by Interpol. Miles did not envy him the task of having to explain the failure of his handpicked team to those up the chain of command. Miles’ own failure smarted, his inability to outrun the five M6’s that had been on his tail, his helplessness as he watched Blackquill being carried off right before his eyes, even though their operation had been doomed from the time they’d left Lompoc with the Phantom, instead of Phoenix, in his backseat. He should have noticed that, why hadn’t he?

Miles helped his husband, his real one—he’d checked some intimate parts of his anatomy to confirm that it was indeed Phoenix—out of Dom’s car. Phoenix was still groggy from having been clocked over the head and pumped with tranquilizers. He supported his husband’s weight, draping Phoenix’s arm across his shoulders, and led him over to what served as the lounge area of the warehouse, depositing him gently on the lone couch. It was just an old sleeper sofa, essentially a futon mattress folded down the middle, sitting atop a metal frame.

Phoenix laid down, still looking pale. He was dressed in a spare set of DSS fatigues that the medic examining him at Lompoc had managed to rustle up.

“How do you feel?” Miles asked, letting the worry he felt creep into his voice. He propped his husband’s head up with a cushion, and pulled up a chair.

Phoenix licked his lips. “Thirsty,” he croaked, giving Miles a wan smile that said he was mostly all right, or would be with a little time.

“I’ll get you something. You stay right there.” Miles brushed a stray lock of hair from Phoenix’s forehead and then rose. He went to the mess hall to fetch a bottle of water from the refrigerator there.

Tego Leo and Rico Santos joined him, hanging around awkwardly, and looking apologetic. 

“Your man, he gonna be okay?” It was Leo who spoke first.

He and Santos had been held and bound at gunpoint by the Phantom’s men, only surviving because they had surrendered their ammunitions without putting up a fight. The men holding them hostage had taken off, likely around the time that the Phantom’s helicopter had come to take him away, leaving Leo and Santos alive. The Dominicans didn’t look too much worse for the wear for their harrowing adventure. Miles judged that they’d been through worse before.

“He should be fine once the tranquilizer wears off,” he replied.

“Make sure he didn’t get no concussion,” said Santos. “They’re nasty, can take a man down for weeks.”

“The medics said he hadn’t.”

“Be careful, ‘cause you never know. He could suddenly...you know…”

Miles raised an eyebrow, waiting for Santos to finish his sentence, when Leo smacked his partner in the arm.

“Stop being so negative, man.”

“I just wanna make sure he takes care of his husband,” Santos retorted in Spanish.

“Then maybe stop bringing up all the negative things that could happen!”

Miles smiled as the Dominicans—they were a couple, right? They had to be—continued to argue with each other, with that sort of familiarity that came with a long and fond association. He backed out of the mess as Leo and Santos moved onto accusing one other of being the worse driver and having made the wrong choice of car, and went back to the sofa to tend to his own husband. Phoenix drank gratefully, and then held the cool side of the bottle against his forehead, closing his eyes with a contented sigh.

Miles sat silently, pushing down the emotional turmoil inside of him, and focusing only on his relief, his gratitude that Phoenix hadn’t been hurt too badly. Phoenix had already given his testimony to the DSS and Interpol investigators that had descended upon Lompoc. He’d been assaulted and knocked out from behind while he’d been waiting for Hobbs to fetch Blackquill from the prison cells, and that was the last thing he remembered before waking up naked in a dark broom closet. Miles didn’t want to think about how lucky Phoenix was to be alive. If the Phantom had wanted to, he could very well and easily have killed him. Miles wondered if the fact that Phoenix, along with Leo and Santos, were still alive meant that the Phantom was reluctant to leave a larger than necessary trail of death and destruction behind him. 

Finally, Phoenix spoke. “Miles, I...I need to tell you something.”

“What?” 

“I think I’ve lost my wedding ring.”

Miles gently placed his hand over his husband’s. “I know.” 

The Phantom had clearly taken it to complete his disguise. Miles had noticed right off the bat when Phoenix had been examined by the medics, but had chosen not to bring it up. He had given Phoenix his late father’s old wedding ring when he had proposed five and a half years ago. He had wanted to give Phoenix something with meaning, something precious to him, as a symbol of his commitment, rather than buy him something new. The ring could be anywhere now, tossed down a storm drain, or destroyed already to erase all traces of anything that might point to the Phantom’s identity, which if he were in the spy’s shoes, would be the smart thing to do. 

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” said Miles firmly, his brows furrowing. He gazed sternly at Phoenix, who was not allowed to apologize for anything that had happened to him. “It’s okay, I’ll get you a new ring.” 

“But it meant a lot to you.”

Miles gave his husband a faint smile. “Nothing means as much to me as having you safe.”

Phoenix brightened a little. Miles lightly brushed his fingers through his husband’s spikes, and Phoenix leaned into his touch. They sat in wordless, companionable silence for a few moments, grateful for the small twists and turns of fate over the years that had brought and kept them together.

“How long did it take you realize that it wasn’t me?” Phoenix asked, curiously.

“Not until the very end,” Miles confessed with chagrin. “He sat with Blackquill in the backseat, so I didn’t get a good look at him. In hindsight, there were a lot of little things that seemed off, but…I’m sorry.”

Phoenix reached out and gave his leg a squeeze. “It’s okay, you were nervous.”

Miles sighed quietly. He had a long way to go before he could be as collected as Toretto and his crew were during the mission. He heard a few murmurs, and looked over his shoulder, noticing that Dom’s team were starting to gather at the table at the center of the warehouse, the natural place to start gravitating for a meeting. 

Phoenix must have noticed too. “Help me up,” he said.

“No, you have you to get some rest.”

“Help me get up,” Phoenix repeated, his brows knitting with determination. “This splitting headache I have proves I’m just as much a part of this crew as you are.”

“You’re in no shape for a debrief,” Miles protested.

“I just wanna listen. And if you don’t help me, I’ll do it myself.”

With annoyed grunt, Miles helped him up reluctantly, and supported him as they walked over to join the crew. He assisted as Phoenix lowered himself into a chair at one end of the table, where everyone else’s expressions told him that his husband should be lying back down on the couch. Grimly, Phoenix stayed seated, though he was listing over slightly. Miles scooted his own chair close, and let Phoenix lean on him.

“You sure you're okay, man?” asked Santos with a whisper.

“I’m fine,” Phoenix insisted. 

Miles resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He wondered why he gave into his husband’s stubbornness so often, but slung an arm around his waist to keep him mostly upright.

Dom stood at the head of the table, and fixed each and every one assembled with a long stare. 

“We’re not the types to just sit around and lick our wounds,” he said finally. “What happened?”

Each of the groups recounted their perspective of the events in turn, starting with the jamming of their communications and finishing with Miles’ account of his encounter with the Phantom and his sudden escape. A stunned silence fell over the group. 

“That’s some real next-level James Bond shit,” Roman remarked. “With the mask and watches and whatever. Where the fuck do you get that crap?”

“The watch has gotta be custom made,” said Tej. “There’s nothing like that that exists on the market, which means we can’t trace a supplier.”

“Could he be former black ops, like Shaw?” asked Letty.

Ramsey shrugged. “Could be, but that doesn’t get us any closer to who or what, or anything remotely searchable.”

The distant rumble of an engine alerted them to the fact that Hobbs was returning. The giant Mercedes SUV pulled up near the entrance. Hobbs jumped out, slamming his door and swearing.

“What’s the word from Interpol?” Miles asked. 

Hobbs strode forward, for all the world looking like a surly bear looking for a wall to headbutt. “They’re calling off the operation,” he snarled.

“What?!” The exclamation came from several voices around the table. “Why?”

“They traced the Black Hawk the Phantom took to a megayacht called the _Czar Ivan_ that just left the port at Long Beach.”

“So?”

“It’s owned by the Russian oligarch, Alexei Platonov.” There were a few blank looks from around the table, so Hobbs elaborated. “Apparently he owns some Spanish soccer teams and telecoms companies and shit. Either way, he’s someone Interpol doesn’t want to piss off, because the current President of Interpol is Russian.”

Miles narrowed his eyes. “So they’re going to let the trail go cold because the Phantom’s found a safe place to hide?”

“Seems so.”

“That’s bullshit,” said Roman, echoing the sentiment on everybody’s mind.

“What about Simon Blackquill?” asked Phoenix, still leaning his head against Miles’ shoulder. “Are they just going leave him in the Phantom’s hands?”

“They said they’re calling off the operation,” Hobbs growled. “Why don’t you check with the agents who recommended you?”

“We will,” Miles replied, with a flinty look in his eyes.

“But we still can’t leave Blackquill where he is,” Phoenix protested. “I mean, we can’t let someone who’s been kidnapped stay kidnapped, right?” He sat up, and looked at everyone around the table.

Letty regarded him grimly. “It don’t feel right,” she agreed.

“Why not?” asked Roman. “He’s outta prison. He was on death row and everything. Why can’t we just leave him be? At least he’s free.”

“Because the Phantom’s probably torturing him?” Letty supplied.

“And because he wants to go back to prison,” Miles added.

“What?!” Roman made a face. “Nah, man. Doesn’t matter how many guys you’ve put behind bars before, even you gotta realize that nobody actually wants to be in jail.”

“I offered to let him go when he was in my car, but he insisted on going to Santa Muerte,” Miles explained.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“He wasn’t pulling your leg or some shit?”

“No.”

Roman blinked, still skeptical. “Weirdo,” he muttered. 

“Letty and Phoenix have a point,” Dom said, nudging the conversation back on track. “If this guy has info on the spy’s identity, I don’t see him having a good time over there, yacht or no.”

Hobbs nodded. “Normally, the Phantom lays low until he’s employed, but if he’s willing to come out of hiding to do a job for himself, you can bet that whatever Blackquill has on him is damn important.”

“Maybe important enough to torture or kill for,” said Miles, “even though that it’s not his M.O.” He looked around the table. “Look, I’m the one that lost Blackquill, so I—”

“No,” interrupted Dom. “We lost him. All of us. So we should be the ones to get him back, and at least offer him a choice.”

Everyone on Dom’s team nodded, albeit with varying enthusiasm. 

Dom turned to Hobbs. “Looks like we’re still in.” He waited for Hobbs to make his call. 

Miles wondered how highly Hobbs truly ranked within the Diplomatic Security Service, and whether he had the freedom to make the decision for himself about this mission. 

Hobbs seemed to consider Dom’s words, and then turned to address Miles and Phoenix. “So it seems this has turned into a rescue mission,” he said somberly. “I don’t know what’s going to happen from here on out, so you two can leave before you get in over your heads.”

Miles folded his arms across his chest, and regarded Hobbs cooly. “We’re already in over our heads.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Phoenix said, backing up his husband. “You never know when you’re going to need us. And,” he added under his breath, “I want my wedding ring back.”

Hobbs glanced at Dom whose expression didn’t change. “Okay, it seems the DSS is still in this too, but let’s try to keep this on the down low. If Interpol is out I don’t know how much weight I can throw behind this.”

Letty snorted.

“We’ll do things our way,” said Dom. 

Dom’s crew moved to perform their different tasks as one. They got to down to work, Tej and Ramsey pulling up their computers to continue tracking the _Czar Ivan_ and hack into its shipbuilders for blueprints, while Leo and Santos went to scrounge up some dinner since nobody had eaten since breakfast. The rest of the group—Miles and Phoenix included—scooted their chairs closer to brainstorm a rescue plan.

* * *

It was nearly midnight before the group broke to start preparations. Everyone was exhausted from their long day, but following the perfectly palatable meal that Leo and Santos had cooked, they found their second wind. The effects of Phoenix’s brief imprisonment had finally worn off, and now they were back on the freeway, in the lightly damaged McLaren 720S. As they sped toward the Hollywood Hills, heading for home to pick up some clothes and a few other necessary items, Miles’ phone rang.

He noted the caller on the screen in the center panel, and pressed a button on his steering wheel. “Hello, Franziska.”

“Miles,” came his sister’s voice from the car’s speakers. “I’m sure you’ve heard the news already about Interpol pulling out of this operation.”

“I have. And Phoenix and I are fine, by the way, thank you for asking.”

“Of course you’re fine. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be calling you,” Franziska sniffed. “At any rate, you fools are off of the assignment now, so I’m sending someone to pick you up.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“What do you mean?” 

Miles could practically hear his sister’s eyes narrowing with suspicion over the phone. 

“Phoenix and I are staying.”

“What?!”

“Hobbs is still in, so the mission isn’t over,” he explained. “We technically don’t work for you, Franziska, so you can’t dismiss us just because Interpol doesn’t want to be a part of this anymore.”

“You were there to represent Interpol’s interests,” Franziska snapped, unamused.

“And now we’re representing our own,” said Phoenix, from the passenger seat. “We’re sticking with the mission. We’re not going to abandon Simon Blackquill.”

“You know he’s probably dead already,” Franziska said.

Miles didn’t think so, but he was not about to reveal why, just in case there was a mole hidden within Interpol’s ranks. Again. “Even if he is, we’re still going in.”

“Are you serious?” 

“Yep,” said Phoenix with a smirk. 

“Miles! Are you and that foolish husband of yours out of your minds?”

“I’m not going to leave somebody kidnapped just because it’s inconvenient,” Miles replied. “And neither is Hobbs or Toretto’s crew.”

Franziska growled in frustration. “Do you two fools realize that you’re just a foolish pair of foolish lawyers?”

“Yes,” said Miles.

“Yep,” said Phoenix.

There was a long silence where Franziska expected more from them, but they had nothing more to say.

“Are you going rogue?” she asked finally, biting off the last word with haughty distaste.

“Does it count as going rogue if we’re going as part of Toretto’s crew?” wondered Phoenix aloud.

Franziska growled again.

It was madness to think that they were going to go and hunt down the yacht that the Phantom had escaped to, when just hours earlier they had lost Blackquill. But they’d come up with a plan, or the bare outlines of a plan to get them to where they needed to be. While Miles was banking on the fact that the Phantom might keep Blackquill alive, he didn’t know whether or not torture was on the table, so he was not about to leave Simon in the spy’s hands longer than necessary. 

“Hmph. I see the lure of the criminal lifestyle has proven too much for you fools to resist.”

Miles smirked as he caught Phoenix’s eye. “Well, you only live once.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “I thought you might say as much.” The accusation had fallen away from Franziska’s voice, leaving just resignation. “I cannot believe my own brother is such a fool. Are you really Wright with you too?”

“Yeah, I’m going,” Phoenix said. 

“Then I hope that the both of you fools have prepared your last wills and testaments.”

“We’re lawyers, Franziska, have some faith,” Miles replied mildly. “Also, we’re coming back when this is done.”

“You’d better be.” Franziska paused before saying her final words. “Good luck, you fools, and don’t you dare orphan my favorite niece.” And then she cut the line.

Miles met Phoenix’s gaze. His husband had a quiet, fond smile on his face. He couldn’t recall that many times in his life where Phoenix had ever looked quite so content. No more words were exchanged on the rest of the way home. 

The house was still when they came in through the front door. They had dropped Pess off at the kennel, so there wasn’t even the patter of happy paws to come greet them. They gathered the few things they had come for—from the bedroom, the garage, the study—and packed it all away in a suitcase. 

Miles stared wistfully at their bed. It would be easy just to collapse into it, drag Phoenix with him and have a short rest, but there were still things to be done. Their bed would still be waiting for him once they were finished with this business, and boy, would they need it.

“What’cha thinking about?” asked Phoenix, who had paused by the bedroom door, trailing their suitcase behind him.

“How much I’d like a good night’s sleep,” Miles replied, wryly.

Phoenix chuckled. “I promise you a good night’s sleep when we get back,” he said with a wink. 

Miles got the hint that the sleep was probably going to be headed off by other activities first. 

“I think that’ll do.” Miles returned his husband’s smile and went to give him a quick kiss. 

They turned off the lights and locked the house back up again. Within thirty minutes they were pulling back into their warehouse headquarters in Vernon.

* * *

The five cars in their convoy hit the highway again, just after sunrise. Their trip down to Long Beach turned into a bit of an impromptu race, because Roman sped off, weaving through traffic in his orange Corvette, wanting to ride because he hadn’t had the chance yet. Letty, with Dom as her passenger, sped off after him, as did Miles, who was not about let a McLaren lose again. They left behind Tej, who was carrying Ramsey, Leo, and Santos in a sensible DSS-issue Volvo V90, doing his best to catch up, and Hobbs, who just warned them over the radio not to draw too much attention to themselves. Phoenix kept clamped his mouth shut for most of the journey, and managed not to yelp too loudly as Miles opened the throttle, gliding smoothly across three lanes and cutting into the shoulder to overtake a slow Jeep Cherokee and keep Roman and Letty in sight. 

The McLaren roared into the parking lot of the Port of Long Beach just a hair’s breadth behind Letty and Dom. A quiet, high-pitched whine was emanating from Phoenix as he pulled in next to the Camaro. Miles smirked as he turned to his husband, who was gripping the handle above the door so hard that his knuckles had gone white.

“Come on, it wasn’t that scary,” he said.

Phoenix’s whine faded to silence. “It is if you’re not used to it,” he retorted.

“Then you should come with me to the track sometime.”

“Not if you go that fast.”

The door rose and Miles stepped out. “Faster.” He heard his husband snort in exasperation. 

Letty and Dom were already unloading their suitcases from the Camaro’s trunk. 

“Nice try,” said Letty, meaning for the words to be a condolence, but Miles could hear the hint of smugness in her voice. Her victory was well-deserved, so he did not begrudge her that. He could see now why she was so well matched with Toretto; he could hardly imagine the races those two must have. He made a mental note to teach Phoenix to drive someday.

Letty offered him her hand, and he took it firmly. 

“I’ll get you next time,” Miles said. 

Letty grinned, and Dom slung a proud arm around her shoulders. “You can certainly try,” he said.

The rumble of a Corvette and a stream of cursing interrupted them. Roman slammed the door as he got out, pouting as he opened his trunk and threw his duffel bag onto the asphalt. “Dunno why I even bother,” he muttered to himself, glaring at the Camaro and McLaren both. 

Miles chuckled silently as he helped Phoenix unload the McLaren. He kept his sunglasses on as he stared up at the rectangular bulk of a ship that towered over him, its glass windows and white hull gleaming in the early morning sunlight. He could not believe that after all this, he was about to set foot on a cruise ship. He grimaced with distaste. Even though the ship promised luxury and elegance, a cruise was a cruise. At least, if everything went according to plan, he would be stepping off of it the very same night. 

This ship was their only ticket to catching the Phantom, whose megayacht was already heading into the Pacific Ocean. The only way to get close enough to it, without arousing the spy’s suspicion, would be to take something whose planned course already passed close enough to the yacht’s trajectory that with a little ingenuity with the landing boats, would allow them to board the _Czar Ivan_.

There were no DSS stealth ships to scramble—sadly, that was not a thing—and trying to board from the air would leave them too vulnerable to attack. They had no idea whether there were anti-air capabilities on the yacht, though the Black Hawk helicopter on board might count. Coming in from the sea and hitching a ride on a cruise ship was the best that they could come up with on short notice. 

The group turned as Tej’s Volvo and Hobbs’ Mercedes finally arrived. Everyone helped unload the luggage and an assortment of other necessary equipment for their operation. Other cruise guests were just starting to trickle in by taxi and coach. 

The team stood together, staring at the gleaming, floating city block in front of them, their only option if they were going to go and attempt to extract Simon Blackquill, for a second time. 

“Kinda feels like a downgrade not working for Mr. Nobody no more,” said Tej mournfully.

“Feels like a relief if you ask me,” chimed Roman.

Phoenix’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. Miles decided to follow the advice that Tej had given him the other day. He had enough on his hands without having to worry about attracting the attention of a shadow organization in the government. He was probably better off not knowing nobody, as it were.

“Let’s get a move on,” grunted Hobbs, heaving a two large duffels on one arm, and throwing a third over his back. 

“You heard the man, “ Dom said, and followed behind Hobbs. 

Tej and Ramsey unpacked a few things first, baggage scanner spoofers they’d spent the night putting together, and then they all moved to get in line for boarding, behind a bus full of retirees that had just arrived.

* * *

They convened in Miles and Phoenix’s cabin after check in, a large suite with a veranda and an ocean view, that even as one of the most lavish staterooms on the ship, barely managed to fit their entire group of ten. It was their final meeting to go over their plans and hammer out some last-minute details. It wouldn’t be until well after dark that the cruise ship would even pass near the megayacht. 

When their gathering was over, Leo and Santos left to make their way into the crew quarters and rustle up a few uniforms, while Tej and Ramsey went to investigate whether their idea for hacking the engine control rooms would work. Roman went to enjoy himself on the upper decks where the ship was already throwing a welcome party by the swimming pool, and Hobbs retreated to the peace of his own cabin, where he could get a few hours’ shuteye before their mission began in earnest. 

That left Miles and Phoenix alone with Dom and Letty, who lingered after the others left. They glanced at each other, and it seemed clear to Miles that there was something they wanted to say. Miles waited expectantly from where he and Phoenix sat at the edge of their king-sized bed, as a moment of awkward silence fell when Letty and Dom hesitated. 

It was finally Letty who began.

“You know, we’ve never said this to anyone on our team before,” she said in her gravelly alto, casually perching on the armrest of Dom’s armchair. “But if you two got second thoughts, there’s still time to back out.”

Miles blinked. He shared a look with Phoenix, and caught no flickers of doubt in his husband’s expression. 

“I don’t understand,” Miles said blandly. In actuality, he did, but if Dom and Letty were going to kick them out of the team, he wanted them to come out with it straight, and not go roundabout trying to convince them it was the best decision, because Miles was determined to see this through. 

“You’re both civilians,” Letty said.

Miles’ gaze flicked sharply between her and her husband. “I don’t recall seeing military service in either of your records.”

“We’ve been doing jobs like this for years,” said Dom calmly. “And we won’t need a precision driver on a yacht.”

“I’m the one that lost Blackquill—”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Then Phoenix and I have a vested interest in ensuring that Blackquill makes it out of this alive.”

Dom paused, levelling a steely look at Miles, which he returned with equanimity. 

“I said before this mission was personal,” he said. 

“Now it’s more personal than ever,” Phoenix added, rubbing the spot on his finger where his wedding ring was supposed to sit.

“Then tell me more about this ‘personal,’” suggested Dom. 

“Simon Blackquill is the key to ending the Dark Age of the Law,” said Miles.

If Toretto knew what that meant, his expression hardly shifted. “How?”

“We have to prove, in court and as a matter of public record, that he was coerced into confessing to his crime, either directly or by circumstance. This can only be accomplished if he’s alive.”

“And how is this linked to the Phantom?”

“Blackquill was on a task force investigating him, before the crime was committed. And there exists nothing but circumstantial evidence for this,” Miles continued, “but there exists the possibility that the Phantom is the actual culprit of the murder that Blackquill confessed to.”

Dom nodded. He considered this for a moment. “How do you know he’s not a double agent?”

Miles pressed his lips into a thin line. Over the years that he and Phoenix had investigated the case, to the best of his capacity as a consultant for the Prosecutor’s Office, the possibility that Blackquill himself was accomplice of the Phantom had occurred to them. And they did not have the hard evidence to rule it out.

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But having met him now, I choose to believe that he’s not.”

Dom looked to Phoenix. 

“I wish I could say I’ve met him, but I’m with Miles on this one. I’ve also got a friend who insists he’s innocent, and I believe her.”

“If he’s a double agent,” reasoned Miles, “we’ll know when we get there.”

“You realize we probably ain’t getting out of this without a firefight,” said Letty. “Can you two handle that?”

“We’ll manage,” Miles bluffed, before Phoenix could give away his discomfort around firearms. It had gotten better over the years with a lot of therapy, but he would likely never be able to handle a gun of any sort without the terror of a nine year-old boy trapped in an elevator haunting him. Despite this, there were things that a man had to do, scared or not. He and Phoenix held firm.

Letty sighed and rolled her eyes at their stubbornness. “We can’t spare anyone but Hobbs to protect you.”

“I don’t see Tej, Roman, and Ramsey as being active in a shootout,” Phoenix said. 

Letty and Dom paused, and Miles knew that they had them on that point. 

“You’re going to need as many people on that yacht as you can get to find Blackquill quickly,” Miles said, and then narrowed his eyes. “Besides, you haven’t told us why you’re here either. Why you’re willing to risk a firefight for someone you don’t even know.”

Dom smiled slowly. “We owe Hobbs one.”

“Simple as that?” asked Phoenix.

“It doesn’t have to be complicated,” Letty replied with a shrug. 

Miles studied Dominic Toretto sitting there in his suite with his wife, Letty Ortiz, balanced on the armrest beside him. A respect had grown over the past few days between him and Dom, as racers, as two men who threw caution to the wind when push came to shove, when circumstances required someone who wouldn’t flinch to step up to the plate. They both lived for that one spark of excitement, those breathless split seconds when there was nothing else they thought of but the roar of the engines, the acceleration, the feeling of the throttle beneath their feet. Only Miles sometimes had to find his moments more figuratively in the courtroom, since a race wasn’t always an option when he wasn’t having a track day.

He knew, from the files that Franziska had sent him, that there was a recently departed member of Toretto’s team—Brian O’Conner, former FBI agent gone rogue, who had been instrumental in assisting Dom’s team in wreaking havoc in Rio, London, and in Los Angeles itself. From O’Conner’s absence, and the absence of his wife, Dom’s own sister, Mia, Miles could infer that Brian had left the crew on good terms, likely to start a life with his family. From the determination he had seen in Dom’s own gaze during their first meeting—the intensity with which he had refused Roman’s suggestion to involve O’Conner—he could guess that the absence of his brother-in-law still smarted, a gaping hole in Dom’s little family of erstwhile criminals and fugitives. Miles understood he could never fill the void that Brian left behind him, and neither would he want to. But it was unfair to him nonetheless, as Toretto stared at him and only saw the could-have-beens if he’d been riding with Brian O’Conner and Mia Toretto instead of Miles Edgeworth and Phoenix Wright. 

It did not seem like a lie that the crew owed Hobbs a favor, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. This was quite far to go for a favor, so it wasn’t the whole story. Miles realized then that Toretto had a code, a personal honor that he adhered to. It might be different to what was written in law, but Dom stuck to it with a fierce unwavering conviction that Miles discovered he admired. It must be the reason why he couldn’t leave Blackquill behind, even though he had hardly met the man—it simply wasn’t right.

There was also the fact that Toretto and his crew enjoyed the pure, unbridled joy of putting their lives on the line, of throwing the dice and sticking with each other no matter the outcome. It was not unlike how Miles and Phoenix had decided long ago hang their fates together, albeit to a lesser extreme. They were not really a part of Toretto’s family and may never be, but Blackquill’s life was tied to their lives, the lives that they had dedicated to the legal system. If anything, they had more of a right to follow Dom’s family onto the yacht, firefight or no. 

Miles put his hand on Phoenix’s knee, and his husband intertwined their hands. Miles let a small, grateful smile quirk his lips upward for the briefest of moments. 

“You’re not leaving the two of us behind,” he said, turning back to Dom and Letty. “We’re coming with you. And there’s nothing you can say that will convince us otherwise.”

Dom stared at them hard, and then finally broke into a lopsided smile. He shot Letty a knowing look. 

“‘You ride, I ride,’ huh?” muttered Dom. 

Letty shook her head, but grinned.

Phoenix cocked his head to the side, not quite hearing or understanding fully what Toretto had said. But Miles gave him a squeeze, thinking that he understood what Dom and seen between the two of them.

Toretto nodded at his wife. “We should go,” he said. “You two get some sleep before the real party starts tonight.”

Letty winked at them on the way out, and they shut the door behind them. 

Miles’ fingers were still laced with Phoenix’s. They contemplated the decision that they had just made together. They had a teenaged daughter to raise between them, which meant they had all the more reason to make it home.

“We got this,” Phoenix reassured him.

Miles nodded.

With a grin, Phoenix slung his arm across Miles’ chest and pulled him down into bed to get some rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like take a moment and give a big "thank you" to everyone who has stopped by to leave kudos and share a few words. It means a lot to me that you are out there enjoying this, even though this must be so weird and niche. I value every kudo, and enjoy reading every comment so much, you guys have no idea what kind of huge, silly grin it brings to my face. Thank you, everybody, for supporting this downright oddball crossover. <3
> 
> **Cars mentioned in this chapter:**  
>  Roman Pearce's [Chevrolet Corvette](https://imgur.com/a/ncfC9hL)  
> Tej Parker's [Volvo V90](https://imgur.com/a/nSsgObs)  
> 


	5. Party Crashers

Miles awoke just at the beginning of sunset, lying atop the covers, still dressed in his clothes, a purposefully unremarkable loose button-up shirt and a pair of navy slacks. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep for so long, he’d just wanted a short doze. He felt like he could do with another few hours’ sleep, but as he checked his watch, he realized they were not long away from initiating their plans. Phoenix was still beside him slumbering, snoring softly. He tried to prod his husband awake, and when that didn’t work, he tried the more gentle tactic of threading his fingers through Phoenix’s hair and massaging his scalp. 

Phoenix hummed contentedly, smacking his lips and turning over.

“Get up, we’re rescuing Simon Blackquill tonight.”

Phoenix sat up like a shot. “Shit!” He looked frantically at the yellowing light of the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, and checked the clock on the bedstand. “We’ve got a bit,” he breathed a sigh of relief and flopped back into bed. “They haven’t left us behind, have they?”

Miles narrowed his eyes. “They better not have.”

They showered in turns, even the suite’s bathroom on the ship too small for the both of them to fit comfortably together. It felt good to be clean, to wash away the dirt, the dust, and the memories of the previous day’s failures. He scrubbed himself efficiently, tonight not one of those times where he had the time to indulge—that would have to wait.

He finished, let Phoenix have the shower, and went to get dressed. He retrieved two black tuxedos from the closet, where he had hung them up earlier. These were ostensibly one of the reasons they had had to make that trip home, in order to convincingly appear as if they were one of the cruise’s more upscale guests. Besides, what better way to show the Phantom they meant business than to dress for the occasion?

Miles was just finishing off his cravat when Phoenix stepped out of the bathroom, his chin stubble-free, a towel slung low around his waist and another around his shoulders, his wet spikes still dripping. He stopped abruptly in the doorway, and gave Miles a slow once-over, capping it with a low whistle.

“Get dressed,” said Miles fondly, unable to resist giving Phoenix’s bottom a smack as it swayed past him.

Phoenix just chuckled, and started dressing himself, shooting sultry looks at Miles all the while, who rolled his eyes with good nature. As he stared as his husband, Miles thought that he really ought to put more effort into making sure that Phoenix shaved more than once a week. 

Miles picked up a small black device, roughly the diameter of a dime, but thick like a medicine tablet, and attached it via some glue to a spot just behind his right earlobe. It was a bone-conduction earpiece, a handy little piece of secret cutting-edge government tech that Hobbs had provided their team. It was a much more subtle way to communicate and coordinate than carrying those blocky radios around. 

He helped Phoenix attach his, noting the beauty of the curve of Phoenix’s neck as he tilted his head, allowing Miles access. It took a great deal of Miles’ restraint not to initiate something with Phoenix that would make them late to their rendezvous with the rest of the crew.

“How do I look?” Phoenix asked as he put the finishing touches on his bow tie. He smoothed out his tuxedo jacket.

“Still handsome,” said Miles, reaching out to straighten Phoenix’s bow.

“I do clean up nicely, if I may say so myself.”

“I should make you clean up more often,” Miles purred. 

“Anytime you ask,” Phoenix whispered, with a devious smile, planting a hand on Miles’ chest and running his fingers just under the edges of his cravat.

Miles stared at Phoenix, particularly at the pink, moist tongue had just darted out to lick his lips. He sucked in a silent breath, and craned his head forward to capture— 

“You two realize we can all hear you, right?” came Tej’s voice, along with a subtle vibration of their earpieces.

Miles froze, and felt himself flush, mortified. Phoenix too, tensed in his arms. There were a couple of snickers over their line. 

Tej was supposed to give a signal when he turned the earpieces on!

“I told you they were gonna start doin’ it, Ri’,” said a voice that sounded like Leo.

Santos tittered.

“Thanks for interrupting the show, Tej,” said Letty sardonically.

“Spoilsport,” grumbled Ramsey.

“I guess that’s mic check done, then,” interjected Phoenix quickly, before the conversation could escalate any further, and Miles’ expression grow stormier. “Are you guys gonna start paying us for entertaining you or are we gonna get this show on the road?”

“How much money we talkin’?” wondered Roman, who suddenly sounded very curious.

“T minus two minutes,” Hobbs announced, his business-like tone cutting short the fun the rest of the team was having.

“Let’s just go,” Toretto said.

Pushing down his lingering embarrassment and vowing revenge in the form of a race victory, Miles took the hand that Phoenix offered him. His husband gave him a reassuring squeeze, which he returned. They shared a nod. They were in this together, as they were all things.

They closed the door of their cabin, and strode down the carpeted hallway side by side, making for the ship’s Grand Atrium, where the main welcome event of the night, the Casino Royale, was already underway.

* * *

The cruise ship was a majestic fourteen decks of staterooms, pools, spas, art galleries, theatres, restaurants, and whatever entertainment the common masses were willing to settle for when caged on a floating city quarter for nearly a month. Hollowed within the middle of the ship and surrounded by small stateroom balconies was the Grand Atrium. It was the central artery of the ship, a miniature parody of an urban boardwalk, enclosed on all sides by glass, replete with carefully manicured shrubs, park benches, and a few shops where the cruise’s captives could spend more of their money. 

The Casino Royale spilled out of the ship’s actual casino and sprawled into the atrium in the form of a giant soiree that was crammed full of people even though it had begun not long ago. All of those who were not napping in their cabins had come for the revelry—easily two-thirds of the ship’s passengers, by Miles’ reckoning—as there was little else to do on the first night of their voyage.

The crew had come out in force too, to serve the crowd, the waitstaff and entertainers threading their way around the extra roulette and poker tables which had been laid out for the affair. What seemed like a good portion of the ship’s security personnel had also assembled, standing on the outskirts of the area and in the corners of the atrium. They surveyed the conflux of guests, and tried not to look too bored with their jobs, despite the freely flowing alcohol for the celebration.

Miles, with his Phoenix at his side, looked about and had no difficulty spotting Roman Pearce by one of the craps tables, dressed in a blinding white tuxedo jacket that fit him surprisingly well, topped off with a crisp scarlet bow tie. He was laughing, while attempting to woo a petite brunette, deaf to all her ‘please leave me alone’ body language, until her boyfriend appeared and had to intervene.

“We see Roman,” said Miles, with resigned exasperation. Roman’s behavior reminded him of one Phoenix’s and his good friends. It was a great misfortune that the world contained not just one, but two of Larry Butz.

Together with Leo and Santos, dressed in the crew uniforms that they had managed to filch, Tej checked in. They were on their way to the engine control room. Letty and Dom indicated that they heading toward one of the ship’s landing boats.

“Ramsey and I are a couple of decks away from the bridge,” said Hobbs over the line. “If you can draw some of security attention, now’s the time.”

“It’s showtime,” Roman said with a gleeful grin, recognizing when to hightail it out of impending trouble, and excusing himself by scurrying quickly through the crowd and losing the brunette’s angry boyfriend, though not without first pocketing a few of his winnings. He shot Phoenix a surreptitious wink as he made his way to the stage that had been set up at the center of the atrium, where the band had made the peculiar choice of deciding to play a jazz rendition a song that Miles thought he vaguely recognized as Britney Spears’ “Baby One More Time.”

A passing waitress proffered him a tray of flutes of sparkling wine, and Miles took two, passing one to his husband. They downed them together in one go. 

Miles grimaced with secondhand embarrassment as he watched Roman elbow his way onto the stage, the band pausing as the unexpected intruder joined them. Roman wrestled briefly with the singer—a woman in her mid-fifties who looked distinctly relieved to give up her microphone so as not to have to continue to croon “Hit me baby one more time” one more time.

There was the brief squeak of feedback that came over all of their earpieces as Roman won possession of the microphone and grinned at the assembled audience, who had stopped gambling, laughing, and drinking, and turned instead to peer curiously at the commotion on the dais.

“All right, listen everybody, gather ‘round!” Roman gestured, as a hush fell over the attendees in the atrium. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen to the…uh...the...the cruise!”

He paused for a moment, and Miles’ eyes widened as he realized that the name of the cruise company had just slipped Roman’s mind. “Oh my god,” he breathed, and squeezed his eyes shut, regretting instantly that he had let the rest of Dom’s crew talk Phoenix and him into being on ‘Special Team’ with Roman.

“This better not be the birthday routine again,” he heard Tej mutter.

“Oh, this’ll be way better than the birthday routine,” replied Phoenix.

Miles turned quickly to regard his husband, and decided he didn’t like the confident, playful smirk that Phoenix was shooting him. “What’s the birthday routine? What’s wrong with it?”

“Don’t worry, Roman and I discussed this already,” Phoenix reassured him.

Miles remembered that when they had finalized their plans earlier in the morning, his husband had gone off to have a word with Roman in a corner. He had assumed it was just a chat, but now he realized that they had been plotting something. He was most certainly not reassured now.

Roman continued, trying to whip up some excitement in the bewildered audience. 

“Uh...as you all know, the first night’s always the biggest party. So welcome, one and all to our Casino Royale night! Can I get a ‘C’?” He tried in vain to get some enthusiastic call and response going. 

Tej groaned audibly over their communications, but Miles noticed that cruise security were starting to pick their way toward the stage. Their plan was for Special Team to create a large enough diversion to draw out the majority of the security personnel, thus allowing Hobbs and Ramsey to infiltrate the bridge while Tej’s group would seize control of the ship’s engine and power systems. He hoped that Roman could draw this out long enough. 

Roman switched to a new tack, his attempt to spell C-A-S-I-N-O with the attendees having failed miserably. “Is everybody having a good time?” 

A few whistles and hollers answered him, some of the crowd starting to believe that he might be an actual part of the night’s entertainment, perhaps a comedy act of some sort. 

“Well, before we get the party going again, I’ve got a very special surprise for all y’all. You’re gonna love this one.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, drawing the audience in. “One of my friends, one of my very dearest, bestest friends—we go all the back to high school, me and this guy. He is here on this cruise tonight, and this is a very, very important night for him. Why don’t you come on up, Phoenix, and introduce yourself!”

Miles pursed his lips. “Try not to make too big an ass of yourself,” he said to Phoenix, as his husband handed him his empty wine flute. Phoenix threaded his way to the stage through the assembly, who gazed at him curiously as he passed. 

“I won’t be the only one,” came Phoenix’s voice over their line.

Roman greeted Phoenix with a big hug when he made it on the stage. 

“This is Phoenix, everybody, my best friend.”

There were a few scattered claps that quickly petered out.

“So what up, man? What are you doing nowadays?”

“Um…” Phoenix paused. “Cruising, I guess.”

“Buddy, I don’t think this is one of those cruises.”

There were murmurs of confusion and the odd bark of laughter amongst the audience. Tej groaned again, and Miles joined him this time. But whatever stupid thing this was that Roman and Phoenix were doing, it was working. They were drawing more of ship’s security to them, a few others in uniform had appeared at the doors.

“Keep it going,” said Hobbs.

“Now,” said Roman, gamely pressing on, “I know tonight’s a big night for you. Why don’t you share with us what you’ve got going on.”

“Well,” Phoenix began, taking the microphone that Roman handed him, and managing to look both giddy and nervous. “I’ve been saving up for this trip for five years. Five whole years, and that isn’t easy when you’re just an amateur poker player, let me tell you.” 

Letty and Dom were the first to confirm they were ready. “We’re in position,” Letty hissed quietly.

“So have you brought anybody special on this trip with you?” Roman asked. 

Phoenix grinned. “I sure have. He’s the light of my life, the smartest and most handsome man that I have ever met. And you know, we’ve been together for eight years now.”

Miles’ eyes widened. No, no, no, this wasn’t the plan! This was Phoenix’s and Roman’s show, they were not supposed to involve him in this! He looked his husband dead in the eye and shook his head firmly.

But Phoenix continued. “And I’ve never been brave enough, in all that time, to pop the big question, but I’ve decided that I’m going to do that tonight.”

There was a collective gasp from the audience, as Phoenix fished around his pockets and triumphantly held up a gold ring with a giant diamond in the center, glittering hideously in the spotlight. He got down on one knee.

“Miles, I will you—”

“Hold on, hold on,” Roman interrupted him, putting his hand up and snatching Phoenix’s microphone. “You can’t do it like that, man, just flappin’ in the wind on stage all by yourself. Come on, if you’re gonna do it, we gotta do it properly. Am I right everybody?” 

A murmur of assent rippled across the crowd. 

“Am I right, everybody?” Roman shouted, louder this time.

A few in the audience yelled, “Right!” back at him.

Roman peered out at the crowd. “Where your man at?”

“Oh, no...” Miles began to feel a little faint as Phoenix pointed him out in the audience, as “the hottie with the silver hair and the cravat” and everyone around him turned to stare.

Tej cackled. “Now this is the best routine I’ve ever heard. All non-essential personnel just emptied out of the engine room.”

“And I can see you’ve got a lot of security heading your way,” Ramsey confirmed, sounding like she had the biggest grin on her face.

“Nice,” said Letty with an appreciative hiss. 

“Come on up, Miles,” Roman gestured to him. “Don’t leave your boyfriend standing up here by himself. Let’s have a proper proposal. Do it right, man. This is about the rest of your lives.”

Miles thought he might just leave Phoenix and Roman up there, but then he was moving, stepping very slowly through the audience, passing his empty glasses to a confused waiter. He wasn’t quite sure as he made his way to the stage, whether he was going to let Phoenix and Roman’s show continue, or if he was just going to wring his husband’s neck in front of more than half of the ship.

“Now would be a good time to hit the lights,” Miles murmured, as he approached, taking the steps, shooting Phoenix and Roman his most murderous glower. Try talking your way out of this, he thought venomously. 

From his new vantage point he saw a few ladies in black evening dresses dab at the corners of their eyes with cocktail napkins. Miles could also see a massive assembly of ship’s security on the periphery of the gathered audience—a few had clustered and appeared to be arguing amongst each other, while others gestured toward the stage and pointed down at a sheet of paper in front of them. Some were even gawking at the stage, like everyone else. Their little performance had yet to be mobbed by ship security not only because Roman was mostly harmless, but also because he and Phoenix were guests staying in the Royal Penthouse Suite, and any interruption in their long-awaited proposal had the potential to erupt as a customer relations nightmare way above the paygrade of any hired cruise security officer. At least that part of their agreed plan was proceeding accordingly.

Hobbs and Ramsey were silent, as were Tej and the Dominicans. Miles hoped they had managed to break into the bridge and engine room, because he wasn’t sure that Phoenix and Roman had thought enough ahead to figure out an endgame for their improvised stunt.

He heaved a very silent sigh as he stood on stage, trying to look like he was happy and not like he wanted to strangle his husband very slowly. Phoenix got down on one knee again, his expression adoring and beatific. He held out the ring again, which Miles recognized as belonging to Roman himself. 

Roman held the microphone for Phoenix. “Miles,” his husband began, “we’ve been together for eight years already, but I want to make this a forever thing between us. I’ve always loved you, and I’ll never stop loving you.”

“I’m in position,” Hobbs finally confirmed over their line.

“Miles Edgeworth, will you marry me?”

“Ready to go when you are,” came Tej’s voice.

He stared down fondly at Phoenix and over at Roman, who was now shoving the microphone in his face and beaming at him, getting a little too into character. 

A wicked idea struck him. Oh, this was going to be quite satisfying. Miles cracked a smile and took one of Phoenix’s hands in his. He could feel the tension in the gathered crowd, as they waited, leaning forward on their tiptoes, for his response. 

“No.” 

Phoenix’s eyes widened, Roman’s mouth opened slowly in disbelief, and the audience drew another loud, collective gasp. 

“Daaaaaamn!” cried Leo and Santos in unison over their earpieces.

Then the engines stalled and the lights went out across the entire ship, casting everyone into darkness.

“Go, go, go!” Dom commanded over their comms. 

Miles, Phoenix, and Roman, leapt off the stage, and quickly scurried toward the exits, leaving the Grand Atrium in utter pandemonium behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to the lovely [naye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naye) for providing comments on an earlier draft. Please go check out her fanfiction! Though she doesn't write in the Ace Attorney fandom, she is one of the best writers I know, so please do check if any of her work catches your interest. 
> 
> As always, a big and heartfelt thank you to everyone who has dropped kudos and shared comments, they always light up my day! 
> 
> Sorry for the action-light chapter again, but I really wanted to have Roman Pearce and Phoenix Wright team up for epic secondhand embarrassment as the fast-talkers on Dom's crew, so this is what I wrote. I promise the next one will bring us back into the action-packed extravaganza that I have promised you all.


	6. Mano A Mano

The sea winds whipped at them as they gathered outside on one of the middle decks. One of the cruise ship’s landing boats was dangling in the air front of them, lowered slightly on the winch that usually secured it, enough so that they could jump onboard. It seemed mad to board like this, instead of from the lower decks, but it was the fastest. Tej couldn’t stall the engines forever.

“I can’t believe you said ‘no,’” Phoenix said glumly, swinging his legs over the railing of the ship, and jumping onto the suspended craft. He was caught and helped aboard by Leo and Santos, who patted his back sympathetically.

“Sorry, the proposal didn’t work out, bro,” said Santos with a grin.

“Thanks,” said Phoenix sardonically, turning to shoot his husband a meaningful look before he clambered the rest of the way inside. 

“It wasn’t even real!” Miles snapped, as he heaved himself over the railing behind his husband. He told himself not to look down, but he did, and there was the vast, dark ocean, hundreds of feet beneath him. The little hop to the dangling tender seemed like a wide chasm. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and hurled himself forward. Leo and Santos caught him, two sets of strong arms helping to regain his balance and hauling him aboard. “And I’m the one who had to propose to you in the first place, because you didn’t even want to get married!” 

“Is that true?” Leo turned to Phoenix.

“Well…” Phoenix stalled for an answer. “I had my reasons?” 

Santos shook his head. “And you whining he said ‘no?’ Unbelievable.” 

Vindicated, Miles folded his arms as he took a seat beside Ramsey on the boat’s long benches. She was busy on her laptop, a heavy-duty, DSS-issue machine that looked like it was water, fire, and just about anything proof, and might, in a pinch, be able to double as a instrument of blunt force trauma.

In the chaos of the power cut orchestrated by Tej, Leo and Santos, Hobbs and Ramsey had broken into the bridge, and infected the ship’s computer with a program she had coded, something that gave her remote access to a subset of the ship’s systems, including the communication, engine, and navigation systems, allowing her not only to control the landing boats but also to emit a sophisticated array of radio signals that would effectively cloak their approach toward the _Czar Ivan_. According to Hobbs, they had managed to both sneak in and out of the bridge undetected in the cover of darkness and the confusion from the engine stalling, but the way that he was sitting beside Tej in the captain’s seat of the craft, cracking his knuckles audibly, made Miles think that that at least a few security officers—those who hadn’t rushed to the Grand Atrium during their diversion—had been served one of the DSS Special Agent’s knuckle sandwiches.

With Dom and Letty climbing aboard last and securing the little transport craft, Ramsey told them to find something and hold on tight. Miles looked over and saw the words “Emergency Winch Override” on her computer screen. Wait, was she just going to drop them like a—

They plummeted.

Miles let out an undignified scream as he left his stomach one hundred-something feet above him. Their boat came to an abrupt, screeching halt, that rattled the last of the air out of Miles’ lungs and tossed everyone who was standing off their feet. Then the winches lowered them slowly the last few feet and gently deposited the boat into the water. 

“Bit fast there, sorry,” Ramsey apologized as everyone glowered at her. 

She released the winch hooks, and Tej steered them off into the night, toward the Phantom’s megayacht, which was now close enough to see with the naked eye, the only point of light in the vast inky blackness of the ocean before them.

They had a few minutes to change, to suit up for the worst they might encounter on the _Czar Ivan_. Letty and Dom had carried with them the essentials their crew would be needing. Hobbs opened a duffel bag stuffed with bulletproof vests, the latest in the government’s materials research, woven threads of a top secret textile, impenetrable to ballistics and blades, that they could wear as under layers without adding much bulk or weight.

“Courtesy of the DSS,” Hobbs grunted. 

Because it would be stupid not to, everyone partook, stripping efficiently, as if they were all just in some gym locker room. Roman opted to change out of his white tuxedo, going instead for his usual loose t-shirt and leather jacket, but Miles and Phoenix kept theirs, shedding only their cravat and bowtie as they shrugged their tuxedo jackets back on. Bespoke tailored, their tuxedos were as comfortable to them as any other clothes they owned, and they would rather wear them, than leave them behind. 

They neared the _Czar Ivan_ , a gleaming luxury monstrosity in white steel and aluminum, its bright lights shining like a beacon in the boundless blackness. It was six decks of the obscene heights of capitalistic excess, with generous outdoor afterdecks that boasted a swimming pool, several hot tubs and lounge areas. Inside the glass-walled superstructure, a movie theater, five-car garage, dance hall, and twenty guest cabins were housed. It was a colossal six hundred and fifty feet from bow to stern—nearly the length of two football fields—and seventy-two feet across at its widest point, a football field and a half again wide. All told, the megayacht was nearly the size of the infamous German battleship, the _Bismarck_ , which was impressive given its status as a private cruiser instead of a sovereign warship. In addition to its fit-for-a-billionaire comforts, it was outfitted with a helicopter pad large enough to fit a Black Hawk, two landing boats, and even a miniature submarine with a capacity for five, submersible up to fifty feet.

“Did you know that thing cost seven hundred million dollars?” whistled Tej, as he edged them closer to the _Czar Ivan_. “That’s seven times what was in that vault we took from Reyes in Rio. Seven!”

“Damn. Maybe we should just take the yacht and sail down to Tahiti or something,” Roman mused.

“Sure,” Tej said, “if you got the cool sixty mil to keep her running.”

“Sixty what now?” Roman exclaimed.

“It takes sixty million dollars a year to run that yacht. You know, the fuel, the food, the captain, the crew, the amenities. It’s a megayacht, Roman. The ship’s manifest has seventy people listed on board. She would bankrupt you in two months flat. Those oligarchs play in a whole different league.” 

“I’m in the wrong line of work,” muttered Roman.

“We all are,” said Tej. 

They all watched as they drew closer to the disgustingly gargantuan floating mansion. Toretto and Hobbs peered at it through night vision binoculars, but could not detect anybody patrolling the afterdeck. 

“Do you think the Phantom is actually the oligarch?” Phoenix wondered aloud, peering outside the boat’s windows like everyone else. “That’d be one hell of a cover story.”

Miles shook his head. “Unlikely,” he replied. “The duties and public appearances required of a billionaire businessman don’t seem suited to a spy who has to go undercover for a long time. It’s more likely he’s impersonating Alexei Platonov in order to control the vessel.”

“But you never know,” interjected Letty from the other side of the craft. “It’s a crazy fucking place out there. We’ve seen some shit in our time.”

Miles was about to ask her to elaborate, but decided against it. He made a mental note to get some stories out of her some other time, maybe when they weren’t about to illegally board a private yacht and battle for command of it in close quarters.

The megayacht did not shift course as they pulled up alongside the swim deck at the yacht’s stern, their little boat’s engines struggling in the wake trailing the _Czar Ivan_ , even though the seas were relatively calm and the ship was not traveling particularly fast. Either Ramsey’s cloaking algorithm had worked, and they had slipped past the yacht’s radar, or they were just about to set foot into the biggest trap that had ever been laid for them. There was only one way to found out which.

Tej edged them as close as he could, and Hobbs jumped, spring lines in hand, his massive bulk crossing the wide gap between the two hulls as easily as if he were just clearing a small puddle. Dom followed, and together they managed, between brute strength and a few clever knots, to close the gap enough that everyone could make it on board. 

Tej followed last, and then they set the landing craft adrift in the ocean to prevent anyone else, particularly the Phantom, from using it as an escape route while they were on the ship. They watched as it receded from view, and was swallowed by the night. This meant that they had only one way off the yacht, the Black Hawk, and only one recourse to get to it—commandeer the megayacht. They had just almost hijacked a cruise ship, so taking control of the _Czar Ivan_ didn’t seem to Miles to be outside of the realm of possibility.

Squeezed together on the platform, Dom’s team took one final look at each other.

“Ready?” Hobbs asked. Everyone nodded, including Miles, who felt that he and Phoenix were less ready than the likes of Toretto and Letty, but at this point, nobody had a choice.

Two sets of identical stairs, one on either side of the ship, led them up to the next deck. Miles and Phoenix followed closely behind Hobbs as they headed up the port side while the others went starboard. They were supposed to stick with the DSS Special Agent, because it was safest within Hobbs’ radius. As Dom had put it, “He’s Old Testament.” 

They passed by a shimmering swimming pool and eight deck chairs, all empty. The ship was well-lighted and steady as it cut across the water at a leisurely pace a polite distance away from the cruise ship, whose lights were now just flickering back to life. Having been built only a few years ago, the ship was modern and sleek, no expense spared for its technical specifications, design, or decor. The superstructure was enclosed entirely in floor-to-ceiling glass, offering its passengers an expansive view of the ocean, and its intruders an equally comprehensive insight into its interior. Miles could see inside the games lounge adjacent to the pool, a gang of six brawny men in sweats, sitting around a semi-circular table with their backs to the glass, playing cards while drinking and smoking. Hobbs nodded to Dom, who kept going, sneaking along the starboard side of the deck, to find another entrance. 

Hobbs held out a hand, motioning for them to stop, so Miles and Phoenix paused, still out on the deck, looking nervously at each other while they did their best to conceal themselves in the few shadows available. What was Hobbs going to do? 

If they thought he might tread carefully, they were wrong. 

Crossing the distance to the sliding door that led to the yacht’s interior, Hobbs threw it open with a bang. The Phantom’s men looked up from their game, startled to see two hundred and sixty pounds worth of solid muscle, marching straight toward them. Half of them stood up to fight while the other half hesitated, caught between whether to put their dukes up or flee.

Hobbs dodged the strike from the first man that came at him, and slammed the open glass door into the thug’s neck. The thug let out a choked cry, and Hobbs’ fist sent him thudding face first into the floor. Hobbs leapt inside and caught the next man’s swing, delivering a quick chop to the windpipe that caused his adversary to drop like a sack of potatoes, and the third he simply took out with a single punch that sent him crashing over the card table, tail over teakettle. 

The other three saw the writing on the wall, but like desperate cornered prey in the face of an overwhelmingly superior predator, decided to go down fighting. They jumped to their feet and charged wildly at Hobbs, who sent the first stumbling back into his compatriots with a headbutt which hit so hard that even Miles and Phoenix heard the accompanying crack. While the other two men gaped at how quickly their associate had been taken out, Hobbs grabbed the backs of their heads, smashed them together, and then slammed them down onto the floor. 

In a manner of mere seconds, there were six of Phantom’s mercenaries on the floor, unconscious—a non-trivial portion of the _Czar Ivan’s_ likely seventy-odd complement—and Hobbs hadn’t yet broken a sweat. Miles stared, wide-eyed and stunned. He never doubted that Hobbs muscles weren’t just for show, but he was surprised by the speed with which the Special Agent had just rained fire and brimstone on six trained men. He turned slowly to regard Phoenix, who had a similar expression of incredulity on his face. 

“Holy shit,” Phoenix breathed. 

Hobbs beckoned. “Hey, you guys coming or not?” he asked, and Miles and his husband hurried inside quickly. “Check ‘em for weapons.”

Miles and Phoenix did a quick sweep of the unconscious bodies on the floor, and all they found of note was a switchblade. Phoenix made the dubious decision to pocket it, despite the quizzical look that Miles shot him. Hobbs motioned them over again, and together they made their way further into the yacht. 

From the blueprints that Ramsey had managed to find, there were several likely places on the ship where they might be holding Blackquill if he were still alive—small rooms with one door, and three solid bulkheads. The first and closest was on their very same deck. It was their job to ensure that the likeliest spots were checked first, while Letty’s team, consisting of Leo and Santos, secured the Black Hawk to lock down their own escape route. Dom, Roman, Tej, and Ramsey’s mission was to secure the bridge and seize the control of the vessel’s essential systems. Everyone’s secondary objective was to incapacitate as many of the Phantom’s mercenaries as possible along the way. 

The interior of the ship sat in that strange space that was the intersection between elegance and ultra-wealthy tackiness, each free surface and corner of the yacht decorated with some sort of antique ornament—a Ming vase, a Renaissance portrait, a Benin mask, a beheaded buddha, which Miles understood was disrespectful and offensive. The interior bulkheads were wallpapered to emulate the refinement of wood panelling, eschewing real wood likely in order to save on the weight of the ship. Miles curled his lip in distaste as he and Phoenix followed Hobbs.

They stalked quietly down a narrow hallway off which branched six cabins, three on a side. Suddenly, a door flew open in front of Hobbs, a good attempt by a shouting mercenary to try to brain him. Hobbs put his fist straight through the door, showering the hallway with thin splinters of chipboard. His fingers wrapped about the collar of the man’s shirt, and he rushed forward, slamming the back of the thug’s head—once, twice, three times—against the edge of the doorway. The man’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he slowly slid to the floor. Hobbs pulled his arm back through the door and wiped the dust off the back of his hand on the leg of his black trousers. Miles patted down the unconscious mercenary and found a stun gun in a holster, a short but hefty baton not much larger than a flashlight. Miles pocketed it, and then it was Phoenix’s turn to raise a questioning eyebrow. 

“You never know when you might need it,” Miles shrugged. 

The narrow hallway opened into a lounge, and Hobbs ran into two men, who had come running from their dinner to see what the commotion was all about. One still had his steak knife in hand, and he stared in bewildered surprise at Hobbs for a moment, before realizing that he was an intruder. The goon thrust his knife forward, but Hobbs caught his wrist, twisted his elbow, and plunged the knife straight back into the man’s own chest. The man gurgled, and Hobbs threw him onto the floor, where he slid and took out his comrade behind him. Hobbs descended, and a landed a punch that knocked the second man clean out. 

The door to the first closet was just across another open lounge, but there was one more mercenary between them and it—a burly man with a large head, a square jaw, a jagged scar under his eye, and arms that bulged with sinew. This last man put his fists up like a boxer and narrowed his eyes at Hobbs. He growled a challenge in what sounded to Miles like Russian and hunkered down, curling a mocking finger toward Hobbs in challenge, clearly intending to give the DSS agent a run for his money. 

“Go!” Hobbs shouted, as he rushed forward to engage. 

Miles and Phoenix scrambled to either side, shoving over chairs in their haste, barely avoiding the brawlers as they collided. It was then, over his earpiece, that Miles heard the sharp pop of gunfire, in the background of Dom’s instructions to Roman, Tej, and Ramsey. Miles flinched involuntarily. Now that the first shots had been fired, it would only be a matter of time before all the Phantom’s men mobilized against them, he thought. 

Phoenix made it to the closet door first, and flung it open. 

It was empty. Or rather, it had a mop, bucket, and a generous assortment of soap, sponges, and cleaning sprays, but no Simon Blackquill. 

“We have the bridge,” came Tej’s voice over their earpieces. “No luck with Blackquill?”

“Wrong closet,” Phoenix said with disappointment.

“Don’t worry,” said Tej. “I think I can flush him out for you, but you might wanna watch out for trouble.”

“What kind of—” Phoenix began, just as a klaxon sounded across the ship.

“What the hell, Tej!” cried Miles.

“Relax, Miles, I know what I’m doing. Ramsey, check the security cams!”

Behind them, Hobbs and the Russian boxer clashed, throwing one another against the walls, their impacts denting and cracking the bulkheads. Their punches and kicks sent food, chairs, and tables flying every which way.

“We’ve already got trouble,” Miles muttered under his breath.

They didn’t have time for this. With the alarm going off, they were going to be overwhelmed in a matter of seconds.

“I’m seeing at least ten people making for your location,” warned Ramsey over the line, “but they’ve just set up a handful of the meanest looking guys outside of a broom closet on the deck above you. You can bet there’s something fishy going on there.”

“And how are we supposed to get up there if there are ten guys coming?” Miles asked.

“Dude, you got Hobbs,” said Tej.

“He’s...kind of occupied right now,” Phoenix said.

“Uhh...hold on, lemme find you something,” Tej trailed off.

Miles heard footsteps coming their way from above, and they still had to make their way up another deck. There were twin staircases on either side of the lounge, and Miles had the feeling that there were going to be some mercenaries thundering down both at any moment. If Hobbs dallied any longer, they’d be flanked. He realized that the only course of action he had was something incredibly stupid and ill-advised. 

“No, I’ll take care of this,” Miles said.

“Wait!” Phoenix cried, but Miles was already striding toward the Russian, whipping the stun gun from his back trouser pocket.

The man heard him approach and sidestepped a blow from Hobbs. Miles watched the exchange closely, and ducked just as the Russian used the opening he’d created to swipe at the empty air where Miles had a been just a split second before. Battling every instinct in his body that told him to run and put as much distance as he could between him and the mercenary, he took a step closer. He watched closely, skirting another blow at the last split second. The man’s fist grazed the ends of his bangs, but Miles didn’t even blink as he brought his arm up, pressed the stun gun directly into the Russian’s ribs, and discharged it on its maximum setting. The man’s body tensed immediately, a shriek of pain and surprise ripping from his throat. 

To the mercenary’s credit, he recovered quickly, shaking off the weapon’s effects, but that momentary distraction was all that Hobbs needed. He pounced with the weight and wrath of angry grizzly bear, leaping up and cracking a chair over the Russian’s skull. The boxer stumbled backward, and Hobbs tackled him, this time smashing him in the face and carrying him to the ground. The Russian lay there at Miles’ feet, and didn’t move.

Hobbs heaved a deep breath of satisfaction. “Thanks,” he said with a curt nod, and then made his way toward the stairs. 

“No problem,” Miles replied.

A group of mercenaries had gathered at the top of one of the staircases, caught off-guard by Hobbs’ sheer size. They were packed closely together in a crowd—no body armor, no uniforms, few weapons to speak of. These clearly hadn’t been expecting intruders, but had just come running when the klaxon sounded, for which Miles was thankful. They all seemed to be unwilling to be on the front line, as Hobbs stomped his way up. He leapt up the final few steps, flying forward and knocking over the first few. They toppled like bowling pins. 

Miles and Phoenix had to press themselves against the wall, as halfway up their ascent, Hobbs had picked somebody up, and tossed him bodily down the stairs. The man flew past them, and landed heavily in an injured heap on the floor. 

“Come on!” yelled Hobbs, as they heard another grunt, and another man went flying down. Miles and Phoenix raced up, dashing past groaning bodies that littered the floor. They sprung over couches and coffee tables, and knocked over a free-standing shoji screen in their mad dash for the broom closet on the far side of the entertainment lounge, which was decorated like a Japanese tatami room. They jiggled the handle of the door, which stuck out conspicuously as mismatched from the rest of the decor, but Miles didn’t have time to concern himself with the incongruous interior styling of the ship. The door was locked, but a muffled cry sounded from within, indicating it was occupied. They looked at each other. Miles knew his husband had taken down sturdier doors, so he let him do the honors.

Phoenix bashed it with his shoulder repeatedly, until the hinges gave and they managed between them to pry it open. Sitting in the middle of the tiny compartment was Simon Blackquill, still dressed in his orange Lompoc prisoner’s jumpsuit. His ankles were secured to a chair via a thick series of cable ties, and his wrists were cuffed behind him. There was a gag around his mouth, and a bit of dried, crusty blood on the side of his face. Partially hidden by the collar of his shirt, there was a series of nasty looking welts peeking out, likely the Phantom’s attempts to extract information. Miles inferred those were not the only ones on the prisoner’s body, only the ones he could see. But whatever Blackquill had endured, he was still able to glower at them with the darkest expression that Miles had ever seen on someone who had just been rescued.

“Are you okay?” Miles asked.

Blackquill grunted through his gag. His eyes were still alert and vigilant, meaning he had his wits about him and he wasn’t drugged. That would make their escape infinitely easier. Miles took a step back as Phoenix drew the switchblade he had stuffed in his pocket, but the convict began struggling as soon as he laid eyes on the former defense attorney.

“It’s okay,” Miles said, “he’s the real Phoenix Wright.” Realizing that was not the most reassuring of statements in the context of a rescue operation, he added, “We’re here with the Diplomatic Security Service to get you out of here.”

Blackquill narrowed his eyes.

“And Dominic Toretto’s crew,” Phoenix said.

Blackquill still regarded them suspiciously, but the burning heat in his gaze had subsided to mere sparks of skepticism. Miles nudged his husband forward, and within a few seconds, he had managed to sever Blackquill’s bonds. The prisoner leapt to his feet, and tore off his gag. He regarded Phoenix and Miles warily.

“How do I know this isn’t another of the Phantom’s traps?” Blackquill growled.

“You don’t,” Miles said simply and earnestly. “You’re just going to have to trust us.”

This seemed to take Blackquill by surprise for a moment. “Why come all this way just for me?”

Miles met the convict’s gaze evenly. “Because one day, you’re going to put an end to the Dark Age of the Law.”

“How?”

Miles paused.

“We haven’t figured out the details,” supplied Phoenix helpfully, “but we know you’re important.”

“And where are you planning on taking me?”

“We can set you free,” Miles offered. “Or take you to Santa Muerte, if that’s what you wish.”

“I have to go back,” Blackquill replied, without hesitation.

Miles stared up at this young man, with his pale skin, wild hair, and dark scars under his eyes, who had spent what would have been the best and most valuable years of his prosecutorial career behind bars. He believed against all reason, against all evidence and logic, that Blackquill must be innocent. The existence of that faith, no matter how irrational, was one of the many ways that Phoenix Wright had rubbed off on him after so many years together. And it was that little belief that allowed him to admire and respect Blackquill’s dedication all the more—when offered the chance at freedom, the opportunity to leave his old life behind, he was still willing to return to prison. 

Miles nodded. “All right.”

Having cleared the deck of the Phantom’s mercenaries, who were all on the floor either unconscious, or rolling around too much pain to do much more than curl up into a fetal position, Hobbs approached.

“If you three are done talking know, we should go.”

Blackquill didn’t move. His gaze flickered over Luke Hobbs, taking the giant of the man in from the head to toe. “Who are you?”

“Special Agent Luke Hobbs, Diplomatic Security Service,” Hobbs said with an impatient frown. “And we gotta get you out of here.”

Blackquill paused. “What about the Phantom? Are you just going to let him go?”

Hobbs looked like he might just pick up Blackquill and sling him over his shoulder if he didn’t start cooperating soon, even though the convict was not that much smaller than he.

“We’ll have to worry about him another time,” replied Phoenix.

“Then what of the other prisoner?”

“What other prisoner?” Hobbs asked.

“I overheard some people talking about one. I can’t say for certain, but I would guess it’s the real owner of this yacht,” Blackquill answered.

“Alexei Platonov,” Miles guessed. “Do you know where he’s being held?”

Blackquill shook his head.

“You got anything, Ramsey?” Phoenix asked.

“The only other place that people have moved to guard when the alarm went off is the master bedroom suite,” she said.

“The master suite,” repeated Phoenix, since Blackquill couldn’t hear their communications chatter.

“The walk-in closet could hold someone,” Miles suggested. It made sense, as a place to imprison the real oligarch, if the Phantom were impersonating him, especially if it was meant to be kept secret from the ordinary servers and sailors who were a part of the yacht’s crew.

Heavy footsteps echoed again in the distance, from all sides. More people were headed their way.

Letty’s voice, accompanied by the sound of more gunfire over their line added to the urgency of their situation. “We’ve secured the Black Hawk, so if you’ve got Simon Blackquill, we need to get going!”

Miles and Phoenix both turned to Hobbs, who only hesitated for a second. “We just got word someone else is being held on this damn ship,” he said. “You’ll have to hold on a little longer, Letty.”

Leo and Santos swore in Spanish. 

“For reals?” Letty protested, but didn’t question Hobbs further.

The footsteps grew closer. 

“We gotta move,” Hobbs warned. He turned to Simon Blackquill. “Can you fight?” 

A slow smirk spread across Blackquill’s features, as he spotted in a corner of the room, beneath a set of recessed halogen spotlights, an alcove with an elegant Asian scroll bearing four characters in sweeping calligraphy, providing a backdrop to a Japanese katana on display. He went over and took it from its stand, scabbard and all, and drew it slowly. The blade gleamed, its sharpened edge and burnished ridge luminous as he tested its balance in his hands and found it satisfactory.

Blackquill grinned wolfishly. “Yes, I can.”

Tough-looking men and the odd woman started trickling onto their deck from all sides. These weren’t just the random thugs who had been lounging about the ship while on off-duty that they had encountered so far, these were purposefully sent to apprehend them, and they came both fully armored and armed. 

Hobbs reacted quickly, and took out the first two in sight, with frighteningly accurate shots from a chrome semi-automatic pistol that he drew from a hip holster. “You three go on, I’ll hold ‘em off!”

Miles didn’t fancy the prospect of leaving Hobbs, ostensibly his and Phoenix’s protection, but it was quickly becoming clear that the DSS Special Agent wouldn’t be good for protection for much longer, not against such overwhelming odds. They had no choice but to move ahead, and try to find this other prisoner. He vaguely remembered when he had read up on Simon Blackquill that the man was well-versed in some Japanese martial art or the other, but that description had apparently been an understatement, as right before his eyes Blackquill cleaved through the barrels of two assault rifles and felled their assailants with the butt of his sword in a couple of swift movements. 

“Let’s go,” Blackquill growled.

Miles glanced at Phoenix, and together they agreed silently to follow, giving him a wide berth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks, as always, to the lovely [naye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naye), who provides helpful feedback and encouragement. Thank you also to everyone who has stopped by and offered words, love, and kudos. Also a big shout-out to those who have actually started watching the _Fast and Furious_ series because of this little story! I was dragged into watching by friends of my own a few years ago, so I'm always glad to pay the enjoyment forward.


	7. It's Going Down for Real

Simon Blackquill was a silent whirlwind before them, a blur of black and orange, and the occasional flash of white. Sparks flew as his blade hewed through metal alloy, cloven barrels pinging onto the floor a second before the bodies of their bearers dropped too, winded by the impact of the flat of Blackquill’s blade fracturing their ribs through kevlar. His stance was low as he rushed his enemies, crossing the lengths of hallways and clearing tables in mere steps, his lips peeled back in a snarl. The glint of tempered steel gave the Phantom’s hired hands pause, that moment’s hesitation enough time for Blackquill to dart past their defenses. He was a rush of compact, efficient movements, no motion wasted as his katana seemed to sweep almost weightlessly through the air, felling foes in its wake. 

He parried the strike of a rifle butt raised behind him, and followed through with a flick of his wrist, bringing down the flat hilt of the sword into the man’s sternum with a loud crack. Before the man even hit the floor, Blackquill spun, thrusting forward and piercing the shoulder of another black-clad attacker, who screamed in surprise and pain. 

Miles and his husband trailed behind Blackquill, trying to keep out of sight and out of the crossfire by ducking into intersecting corridors whenever new adversaries ran into the fray.

Bullets flew wide, blowing holes through ceilings, floors, and bulkheads, fired from shaky hands and trembling pistols as Blackquill leapt and knocked the guns from their grip. The edge of his sword vibrated with an ethereal hum as it sliced in a gleaming arc through metal, flesh, and leather. 

Miles peered around the corner as silence fell. If this was the level of Blackquill’s skill after being locked up for years, Miles feared to think what the man could have done with a katana at the height of his mastery.

In the space of a few short minutes, Blackquill had carved them a path to the master suite. He rounded the corner, and strode toward a set of grand, gilded double doors at the fore of the ship. Four bulky figures stood guard, two tough-looking men and two square-jawed women with deep scowls, who wouldn’t have looked out of place as steroid-pumped wrestlers representing the Eastern Bloc during the Cold War. Miles and Phoenix remained crouched and hidden at a distance, watching through a mounted mirror on the opposite wall the imposing figure that Blackquill cut as he approached. He had his sword held in one hand to his side at the ready, a single drop of dark red blood crowning its point.

“If you want to live,” he warned them darkly, “you’d better run.”

His answer was four truncheons extending to full length with a snap of their wrists. The weapons crackled with electricity—longer, meaner versions of the compact stun gun that Miles still had in his back pocket.

Miles watched with apprehension as Blackquill pulled his sword closer to him, gripping it with both hands. His lips slowly quirked into a smile as the four guards closed and circled around him, watching and waiting for the right moment to strike.

Blackquill had managed so far not to deal any lethal blows, but in a four-against-one fight against vicious electroshock weapons, he was at a disadvantage with his conductive metal blade. Steel clashed on steel, as four bodies descended on the convict amidst roars, grunts, and the loud snapping of electric current.

“We have to do something,” Miles hissed quietly to his husband, as Blackquill dodged a swipe from a baton and knocked it flying, but a well-placed kick from behind brought him to a knee.

Blackquill rolled out of the way of another kick, and leapt to his feet again, on the defensive for the first time since he had picked up the katana.

“We need a distraction,” Miles said. These were not ordinary mercenaries, but seasoned combatants who hadn’t so much as flinched at the sight of a real sword.

“I could hit the lights again?” suggested Tej’s voice over their earpieces.

“No, he won’t know it’s coming. We need something else.”

“I have an idea,” Phoenix said suddenly, and scrambled to his feet. “Dunno if it’s going to work, though.” He winked at Miles, “So wish me luck.” 

Before Miles could protest, Phoenix had rounded the corner, straightening the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, striding with deliberate, purposeful steps toward the conflict.

“Hey!” he shouted, his voice as sharp as the cutting edge of Blackquill’s blade. “Stand down, all of you!”

The four guards paused in confusion, mid-strike. One opened his mouth to speak, but Phoenix cut him off. 

“Toretto’s crew has infiltrated my ship, and you’re standing around fighting each other?!” he barked.

The four guards had varying degrees of puzzlement on their faces, but seemed responsive to the air of command that Phoenix was exuding in his gambit. Even if the Phantom had been masquerading as someone else earlier, they accepted, however tentatively, Phoenix’s authority as the Phantom now. 

“But Boss,” one of the women protested, “the prisoner—”

“He’s on our side,” Phoenix snapped, ignoring the quizzical expressions passing between the four. He glared at them, fixing each one with a sharp, intense stare. 

“Ten men have boarded this ship and we haven’t caught a single one. What are you still doing here? Bring me Toretto’s crew!”

“Maybe one of us should—”

“Now.” Phoenix narrowed his eyes, biting off the last part of the word with an icy emphasis that brooked no argument.

Even so, they hesitated, common sense warring with their disbelief, which wasn’t going to hold out for much longer. There was the likelihood that that was just Phoenix Wright standing before them, trying to pull the wool over their eyes, but there was also the non-trivial possibility that it was really their boss, the Phantom, and nobody wanted to be the first one to refuse a direct order. Their uncertainty, their dropped guard was exactly the opening that Blackquill needed. He dropped the first two by smashing in their noses with the flat of his hilt, and brought the back of his blade down on the two women, winding them with a heavy impact across their stomachs and before knocking them unconscious. 

“I can’t believe that worked.” Phoenix took a moment to exhale a huge breath of relief, as Blackquill stood back up. 

Miles heaved himself out of his hiding place, having watched that entire exchange with no small amount of apprehension that quickly transmuted to into a swelling pride for his husband after his gamble proved successful, foolhardy though it was.

“Dude, that was ballsy as hell,” said Tej over their line. “Hey Dom, can we just take Phoenix instead of Roman for our next job?”

“What, that’s all it takes?” protested Roman, his voice rising an octave in indignation. “After all I’ve done for all y’all? The dude can’t even drive!”

Multiple voices chuckled. 

“He can ride shotgun with Miles,” suggested Tej.

“Man, I don’t get any respect around here,” Roman grumbled.

“Enough,” Dom said, shutting down the chatter momentarily. “Let’s find this other guy and get out of here.”

Miles might have been smiling wryly, both at the conversation over their comms and at his husband’s antics.

Phoenix beamed. “Not bad, huh?”

“You’re lucky they were dumb enough to buy it.”

“Didn’t need to buy it for long,” replied Phoenix. 

The both of them squatted to pat down the unconscious guards, stripping them of the rest of their weapons, and relieving the largest one of the access card for the master suite doors while Blackquill kept a watchful guard. 

“It was quite remarkable,” Miles admitted finally.

Phoenix’s grin grew wider, and a brief look of fondness passed between them. They were just a little too far away from each other to share the quick, chaste kiss that Miles wanted, except then Phoenix, throwing caution and propriety to the wind, grabbed him by the lapels and yanked him in, placing a solid smooch on his lips. 

Blackquill made a strange grumbling noise, half-cough, half-grunt. 

Phoenix let him go, but not before Miles managed a cheeky little nip on his husband’s bottom lip, and together they got back down to business. They found handcuffs and thick cable ties on the guards, so they trussed them up while they were still limp, binding their wrists and ankles. 

Phoenix took the access card, pausing just as he was about to open the doors. “Do you think it’s occupied?” he asked.

“Not by the Phantom, clearly,” said Miles, with a nod toward the unconscious guards whom he had been able to fool.

He spared a thought for the spy, and wondered where the Phantom might be, if he were lying cleverly in wait in a dark, shadowy corner of the ship, biding his time for the right moment. They had covered good ground, and had yet run into him. All escape routes should have been shut down, between Letty who had secured the Black Hawk, and Tej and Ramsey, who would have disabled the landing boats and mini-submarine by now. So what was the Phantom plotting? 

With this niggling thought still in the back of his mind, Miles joined his husband at the right of the double doors. He would just have to satisfy himself with rescuing Blackquill and this other prisoner, lest they get too greedy and lose everything.

“Anybody else who heard the commotion would have probably come out,” he said. “But it would be smart to proceed with caution.”

Blackquill nodded his readiness, pressing himself against the wall on the other side. Phoenix pressed the card onto the access panel. The lock clicked, and the doors swept open automatically. They waited for gunfire, for more guards to come pouring through, but there was nothing. Blackquill went in first, brandishing his katana before him. 

The room was silent, and disappointingly ordinary, aside from the luxurious furnishings. Miles had expected it to be packed to the brim with monitors displaying 007-style surveillance programs, its walls clustered with futuristic weapons, but it was simply a large and lavish bedroom, dominated by an impeccably made but gaudy four poster king-sized bed draped in ostentatious gold lamé curtains with a matching bedspread. Through the glass wall that stretched from floor to ceiling, the bed overlooked the prow of the ship.

Though at first glance, the bedroom had hardly seemed used, but upon closer inspection, Miles noticed some telltale signs that it had been hastily rearranged, as the indentations in the carpet didn’t quite match up with the arrangement of the furniture, and there were strange streaks of dust, barely discernible, on the writing desk and the bedside tables, as if various objects had been swiped. 

“Someone’s been here, and recently,” Miles observed. It was a pity he didn’t have time to do a full investigation. Surely, there must be something here an expert forensics team could find—a hair follicle, a fingerprint, anything—but they didn’t have time to dally. Besides, Phoenix was already rifling through all the drawers, getting his own fingerprints over everything, in a desperate search for his wedding ring. 

As soon as Miles spoke, a muffled, desperate whining could be heard from the walk-in closet, itself half again as large as the generous bedroom. They went in, and the motion-sensitive lights flickered on. Miles half expected again to encounter a display shelf of masks, perhaps a bank of make-up and disguises or exotic weapons and tools of espionage à la Bond, but he was disappointed to find an ordinary closet filled with mundane shirts, suits, and shoes. If anything had been in here before, the Phantom had cleaned it out. And if the spy were smart, as surely he was, everything but the essentials would be sinking to the bottom of the ocean by now.

That gave Miles an idea. “Ramsey,” he called over their line, “do a search of the security footage recorded since we boarded. He’ll have tossed anything that can be used to identify him overboard. Look for someone who might have done that.” It was a long shot, but worth a try.

“Got it,” Ramsey replied.

The doors at the back of the wardrobe shook, and Blackquill threw them open. In the small space there, sat a red-faced squat man in a button-down shirt and khaki trousers. Alexei Platonov, the owner of the very megayacht they were standing on, gazed back at them from the chair he was bound to, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. Platonov shook his head vigorously, emitting a series of grunts and protests through his gag as he spotted Phoenix. 

“Not again,” Phoenix rolled his eyes. “I’m not the Phantom.”

The protests intensified as Miles pulled Platonov out, and Blackquill stepped forward, lifting his katana. He made quick work of the oligarch’s bonds.

“Oh my god, finally police rescue,” Platonov gasped in a thick Russian accent, as soon as his gag was loosened. He regarded Phoenix distrustfully, but seemed glad enough to be free from his imprisonment. “Where have you been? I have been kidnapped for three weeks!”

“We’re not the police,” Miles said.

The oligarch’s brows rose. “No? Then who are you?”

“Diplomatic Security Service,” Blackquill replied. 

It was close enough to the truth to pass, Miles supposed. He didn’t think that Platonov would have believed him if he’d said that there was only one DSS agent leading a ragtag gang of street racers, two attorneys, and a death row inmate.

“Oh, good,” said Platonov, pleased. “American big guns.” He eyed Blackquill in his strange orange jumpsuit, and then Miles and Phoenix in their tuxedos, and concluded that they must be in charge. He addressed them cheerily. “So, ship is mine again, yes? You have disarmed bombs?”

“What bombs?” Miles asked.

“Tej...” Phoenix said, with growing alarm.

Platonov blinked with disbelief, and then started shouting. “Spy pretending to be me put explosives all over ship!” explained Platonov. “Said if I don’t behave, then boom!” He flung his arms wide in the air, imitating an explosion.

“Uhhhh, shit...” came Tej’s voice.

“Said bombs in engine room, in hull, in helicopter, everywhere! You have not disarmed them yet?!”

“Shit, shit, shit, guys,” Tej cried, his voice rising in urgency. “They’re not connected to the main systems on the bridge, so I can’t see them! There must be a remote detonator, but I don’t know the frequen—”

“Letty!” Dom’s voice roared over their comms. “Get away from the Black Hawk! Now!”

As if on cue, a crack of thunder erupted, piercing the air from all around them. The ship groaned and shuddered so violently that Miles was thrown off his feet. The rumble continued, a resounding echo in the vibration of his earpiece and in the resonant creak of the steel structure surrounding them. He turned around and a saw, through the entrance of the closet, through the master suite’s glass window overlooking the bow of the ship, fiery debris rain down from the decks above them. He recognized the burning, twisted remains of a helicopter’s rotor blades as it fell through the air and showered the foredeck in several fractured pieces. The helipad was on the highest deck of the ship, where Letty, Leo, and Santos had the task of securing it, as their sole escape route. 

“Letty!” Dom bellowed again, his voice cracking on the edges. 

If Letty Ortiz had perished in the blast, the Phantom had just signed his own death warrant, because come hell or high water, Miles knew that Dominic Toretto would not let him leave the _Czar Ivan_ alive. For the future of the legal system, he hoped that she survived.

The emergency klaxon blared once again across the ship, a piercing shriek that made Miles grimace. The next few moments were a chaos of chatter and a flurry of activity.

“Cameras on the helipad are out,” said Tej.

“I’m going to find Letty,” came Dom’s voice, and Miles thought he heard the distinct clack of a shotgun being pumped. “Roman, you hold down the bridge.”

Phoenix struggled to his feet and helped him up with a hand. “Are you okay?” his husband asked.

“Yes, I’m fine,” replied Miles shakily, gripping Phoenix’s extended arm tightly. As fine as he could be, given that explosives on the ship had just detonated, and they’d just lost their best escape route. 

Simon Blackquill had dropped to one knee, his blade thrust deep into the floor for balance. He too was unharmed. He was not tuned into their communications, and so looked to Phoenix and Miles for guidance.

“My ship!” wailed Alexei Platonov, scurrying into the bedroom and pressing his hands and nose against the glass, watching with dismay the gnarled and flaming chunks of metal which littered the foredeck below them.

“Sit rep!” Hobbs’ voice cut across their line, firm and authoritative, calmly taking command of the situation.

“The fire alarms are going off in the lower decks and the engine’s non-responsive!” replied Ramsey quickly.

“We’re starting to take on water at the front of the ship,” added Tej urgently. “I think the bombs have punched through the hull there.”

There was a pause as the ramifications sunk in. 

“The Phantom’s going to sink the ship,” breathed Miles. And with it, all the rest of the possible clues, signs, and evidence of his presence and identity.

“Guys, we need to get our asses off this sinking hunk of metal now!” shrieked Roman.

And so did the Phantom, Miles realized. If he were sinking the ship, surely he would not be so foolish as to intend to go down with it. The only other ways off the yacht were the two landing boats and…

Miles and Phoenix turned to each other at the same time. “The mini-submarine!” 

“The Phantom’s heading for the submersible!” Phoenix exclaimed.

“I’ve disabled it, but someone’s attempting a manual override,” Ramsey reported.

“Just ID’d someone on the cams looking like Alexei Platonov on the lowest deck,” said Tej. 

“That’s him,” Miles confirmed, as the oligarch, the real one in the room with them, went on wailing about the hundreds of millions of dollars he had spent going up in flames, and how this was all the fault of the U.S. government for being tardy with his rescue. 

Blackquill yanked his sword out of the floor, snarled, and without a warning, sprinted for the door.

“Hey!” squealed Platonov, as Blackquill shoved him out of the way in his haste, “is that...is that my Muramasa?! Give it back! Do you have any idea what it’s worth?”

Without a second thought, Miles scrambled after Blackquill, realizing a moment too late that the man had taken off after the Phantom. They had come so far to rescue him, he wasn’t going to let Blackquill out of his sight now.

“Miles, wait!” Phoenix cried behind him.

The chatter continued over their line as Miles raced to catch up to the convict, ignoring the defeated mercenaries who were starting to wake up, and struggle to their knees. Hobbs ordered Ramsey and Tej to send out a distress call, activate the landing boats again, and told Roman to get his ass down below decks and secure one of them. 

“Blackquill, we have to go!” Miles shouted after him as he pounded back through the tatami room, but the prisoner ignored him.

Blackquill widened the lead by vaulting over couches and leaping over tables. He shoved over whatever furniture he could, littering chairs and throwing lamps across his trail. The obstacles slowed Miles down as he maneuvered around or over them, making it harder, step by step, for him to catch up to Blackquill, as they dashed along hallways and through lounges midship. With alarm, Miles realized that the subtle shift he had at first mistaken for the ebb and swell of the ocean was in fact the yacht’s bow beginning to sink as it took on more and more water. As the prow began to submerge, the stern of the ship was starting to lift, turning his journey to the aft a slightly uphill race.

“Hobbs!” Miles shouted, “Blackquill’s going for the Phantom! Stop him!”

“Where?” 

The flash of orange launched itself down the stairs, bounding lightly off one step, before landing in a roll on the deck below. Blackquill leapt smoothly back onto his feet, having lost no momentum, and was out of sight in the next second. 

Miles had to pick his way down the steps, now angled awkwardly due to the pitch of the ship. 

“Main deck!” he shouted.

“Shit,” Hobbs muttered beneath his breath, and Miles knew then that they were both too far away to intercept Blackquill.

He joined up with Hobbs a few steps later. The man had suffered a few small cuts and bruises intercepting the Phantom’s henchmen for them, but was otherwise unharmed. Phoenix, puffing with exertion, finally caught up.

“Where to?” Hobbs asked.

“Forward, then down,” Miles said. 

Hobbs took point, plowing through the hurdles that Blackquill’s flight left behind him. If any of the Phantom’s mercenaries who had taken a punch from Hobbs had awakened, the kept themselves still and prostrate as the man came storming past them. 

Their group of three hurried down another deck, when another group of black clad men wielding rifles, appeared in their path, emerging from an intersecting hallway. With a roar, Hobbs gained speed, intending to crash straight through them, but a man stepped forward from the ranks, and snatched off his balaclava.

He was Asian, with a square jaw, tanned skin, and soft brown eyes. His long, dark hair was partially swept up a loose bun, and secured with a simple purple-colored elastic, with what could not be captured floating gently down his back. He seemed vaguely familiar to Miles, but Hobbs recognized him immediately, stopping in his tracks. 

“Han? I thought you were dead.”

Miles recalled from Interpol’s dossier that there had been a member of Toretto’s crew by the name of Han who had died a few months ago in a collision during a street race in the middle of Tokyo.

“It’s complicated,” Han replied.

Hobbs narrowed his eyes, and whipped out his pistol, pointing it straight at the man before them. In answer, all the guns from the armed group pointed back. 

“Hey, hey, hey, stand down,” Han commanded. Slowly and reluctantly, the rifles lowered, though Hobbs kept his sidearm raised. Miles noticed then that the bulletproof vests of Han’s team bore the insignia of Interpol. What were they doing here?

“Give me one good reason not to shoot you in the next two seconds for being the Phantom,” growled Hobbs, unconvinced by Han’s act of submission.

“Come on, Hobbs, the Phantom wouldn’t be stupid enough to impersonate someone who’s supposed to be dead,” Han replied calmly and reasonably. “And I can also convince two members of your team to vouch for me.”

“How are you gonna do that?” Hobbs asked.

Han’s gaze shifted to Miles and his husband. “I take it you’re Miles Edgeworth and Phoenix Wright?”

“We are,” Miles responded. He had noticed that Phoenix had gone very still, and was staring very intently at Han. 

“I don’t know exactly what it means, but someone at Interpol said this would convince you.” Han drew something from his pocket, and Miles sucked in a deep anxious breath, already knowing what it might be before Han presented it to him.

A limited edition, first season Steel Samurai phone strap sat in the middle of Han’s palm. The wrist strap itself was dirty, its woven threads smudged and frayed to the point where its original color was hardly discernible. The paint on the little plastic figurine that dangled from it was scuffed and chipped to the point that there was more milky white plastic mold showing underneath than there was color. The strap had clearly seen better days, but had weathered more than a decade of use from its loving owner, who had kept it, phone after phone.

“Maya,” Phoenix breathed in quiet disbelief.

Miles pressed his lips into a thin, unhappy line. Maya Fey was the Master of Kurain, what was she doing all the way out here in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with Interpol, spirit channeling a dead member of Toretto’s crew? 

“That’s Han,” he confirmed grimly. 

“You’re certain?” Hobbs asked.

“Yes, we are,” replied Phoenix.

Hobbs lowered his firearm. “All right. You wanna explain what’s going on?”

“No, it would take too long,” Miles said. He concluded that his sister must have phoned Maya, and called her out here, because she hadn’t trusted them to come back alive all on their own. He would have to have a few words with Franziska when he returned, and save some for Maya as well, for her recklessness. 

“Yeah,” Han nodded, getting down to business now that he wasn’t on the wrong side of a barrel of a gun. “We’ve got to get guys you outta here. You’re taking on a lot of water, and fast. Interpol have managed to scramble a ship for the rescue, but it’s just an empty cargo vessel that happened to be docked at Long Beach at the time. We already have two smaller transfer boats waiting by the lower decks midship for evacuation.”

“I thought Interpol didn’t want to be a part of this mission,” said Hobbs.

“Well, some individuals thought otherwise,” Han replied with a shrug. “We need to round up everyone, and Interpol means everyone.”

Hobbs nodded his assent, and then ordered, over their comms, for everyone to evacuate. There were many startled murmurs as Hobbs revealed that Han had appeared—wasn’t he supposed to be dead?—and sighs of relief as Dom reported from the helipad that Letty, Leo, and Santos had only sustained minor injuries and possible concussions, and that the explosion of the Black Hawk had severed the communications signal in their earpieces.

Han then ordered his men to sweep the ship for the Phantom’s mercenaries, the crew, and Alexei Platonov, who had been left behind in the master suite, and bring them in.

“Come on, let’s go,” Han beckoned to them. 

Miles followed for a distance, as the four of them made for the rescue boats that Interpol had sent, but he only went as far as the staircase that would be the fastest, most efficient route to where the mini-submarine was berthed. 

He paused by the top step. “I’m not coming,” he said simply. “

Phoenix stopped. “Miles—”

“I’m going after Blackquill,” he replied. “You should stay with... with Han.” 

Phoenix pleaded with his eyes for his husband not to go, but Miles held firm. Blackquill was the key to ending the Dark Age of the Law, and he knew it. If he let Blackquill and the Phantom sink together, or worse, if he let the Phantom escape with Blackquill, they might as well kiss everything that they had ever worked for together goodbye. And Miles Edgeworth could not let that happen.

“Phoenix, you make sure Maya comes home safe.”

A sad, rueful smile crept onto his husband’s face. “Am I going to be able to convince you not to go?” Phoenix asked. 

Miles shook his head.

Reluctantly, Phoenix acquiesced, but not before crossing the distance between them, and pulling him into a fierce, strong hug. “Don’t do anything stupid,” Phoenix whispered quietly, his voice wavering. 

Closing his eyes, Miles remained silent, tightening his embrace about his husband. They parted quickly, for time was short. 

“I’ll make sure everyone makes it off,” Hobbs said. He nodded once to Miles. “Good hunting.”

Miles returned his nod, and then he turned away from his husband, from Hobbs, from Han, and staggered down the companionway, holding tight onto the bannister as it threatened to toss him forward. The stern had risen even more in the brief space of time that they had spent talking.

“Promise me you’ll make it out.” It was Phoenix’s voice over his earpiece.

“I promise,” Miles replied, not caring that everyone on Dom’s crew could hear them over the line. He strode purposefully forward, as Interpol broadcast a message over the _Czar Ivan’s_ internal frequencies, promising safe evacuation in exchange for peaceful surrender. 

Dom Toretto spoke. “I’m going to hold you to that. And bring Blackquill back with you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to [naye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naye) for taking time out of her busy day to read early versions, and thank you to everyone who is reading along and dropping comments and kudos along the way. It's really lovely to be able to have conversations with all of you, as I've had the time of my life writing this!


	8. Ride or Die

It was as he was making his way down the decks of the ship that Miles heard the crack of gunfire. Against his better judgement, he ran toward the sound, pounding down the final stairway and through a corridor where he found Blackquill’s katana embedded deep within a bulkhead. The convict was nowhere in view.

Miles rounded a corner, and found himself facing one of the glass walls of the _Czar Ivan’s_ garage, or perhaps more accurately, showroom. It was where Platonov displayed, with all the elegant furnishings and lighting of an art gallery, a few of the supercars he owned. The oligarch’s taste for gold seemed to carry over even to his motors, Miles observed, noting the custom matte gold bodywork of a Ferrari La Ferrari, Porsche 918, Lamborghini Aventador, Pagani Huayra, and the big brother to his 720S, the McLaren P1.

Simon Blackquill and another gray-suited figure were locked in close combat, grappling for a small chrome pistol between them. Before Miles could draw his stun gun again and intervene, Blackquill wrested the gun from his adversary, and tossed it to the floor, where it slid on the smooth surface and out of view, beneath the Aventador. They exchanged a few more blows, but Blackquill’s opponent knocked him back with a well-placed punch to shoulder, where a bloom of dark blood from a bullet wound was already staining his orange jumpsuit.

Simon Blackquill staggered away, clutching his injury, but managing to stay upright. Opposite him stood Alexei Platonov, panting with exertion. A flap of skin on Platonov’s face had peeled, a thin translucent layer of flesh that curled away from the rest of his features, with not a drop of blood in sight. It was the Phantom. Blackquill had cornered him in this room, the only exit the narrow doorway through which Miles had just passed. In the back, the garage’s bay doors of sectioned steel were firmly shut. Miles glanced about discreetly for the switch to open them, but he couldn’t find it.

“Give it up,” Blackquill rasped. “There’s no way out. Interpol have you surrounded.”

The Phantom laughed, a chilly, mirthless cackle. “I’m so scared,” he said, in Platonov’s Russian accent. His gaze flickered over to Miles, and he switched immediately to Phoenix’s higher pitched register.

“Ooh, hello, sweetheart,” he crooned. “It’s a pity I let you live the other day only for you to die now.”

Miles smirked as he realized that the Phantom had inadvertently leaked a key piece of information. If the spy had any other weapon on him, he would have used it already against Blackquill. That could only mean that there was something else the Phantom had up his sleeve—something bigger.

“Spoken like a man who still has explosives on this ship he hasn’t detonated yet,” Miles said, loudly enough that he hoped Hobbs and Toretto would be able to pick it up over their line.

The Phantom laughed again, a passable facsimile of Phoenix’s hearty chuckle, though missing its characteristic warmth. The Phantom’s fingers flew to the corner of his jaw. He peeled back the edges of viscid tissue, stretching sticky filaments, until he revealed, beneath the countenance of Alexei Platonov, one that looked a little strange to Miles, because he only regularly saw it in the mirror.

The frosty grey eyes of Miles Edgeworth stared back at him, his expression haughty and aloof. Soft silver hair framed his face, a striking contrast to the cruel sneer that crossed the Phantom’s lips as he lowered his voice to mimic Miles’ own baritone.

“Well deduced, Miles,” the Phantom said. “Consider that information be my final gift before I send you to the bottom of the ocean.”

“We’ll see about that,” returned Miles, as he wondered how the Phantom had stolen his face so quickly. He moved forward, his mind racing for options. He had a chance to capture the Phantom now—he had to risk it, even though Blackquill had been shot, even knowing that there were still undetonated bombs on this ship. The spy wouldn’t finish off the _Czar Ivan_ while he was still aboard, that much Miles knew, so he needed to buy enough time to evacuate the ship and come up with a plan.

“Confident words for a man about to his leave his husband a widower. How very tragic,” simpered the Phantom in mock sympathy.

Miles brushed off the spy’s jibe. “How very tragic that no family will mourn for you when you die with me tonight.”

The Phantom laughed, a icy chuckle that sounded at once both familiar and alien to Miles’ ears, a faint, half-remembered apparition from what felt like a lifetime ago. Did he used to sound like that in the courtroom?

“Nice try with this ‘family’ thing you and Toretto seem to think is so important.” The Phantom tapped the side of his forehead and wagged his finger. "But do you know what the problem is with family?”

“What?”

“They make it so easy to manipulate you,” the spy replied simply. “Think about your daughter, dear little Trucy Wright, aspiring magician. What do you feel when you realize that she’s about to lose her father for the second time?”

Miles had been trying to avoid dwelling on the possibility of orphaning his daughter this entire mission, but he would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that the sliver of fear he had been trying to ignore had already pushed itself into his heart days ago. At least Phoenix was getting himself to safety. At least there were people he could trust to be there for Trucy if anything should happen—his mother-in-law, his sister, Maya and Pearl Fey.

But as for her having to weather the death of one of her fathers…

Miles regarded the Phantom coolly. “She’ll survive,” he said. He imagined Trucy's tears, her disappointment, her fear. But he also imagined all the friends who would stand with her, and he imagined her smile, which he had no doubt would eventually return. The girl was made of tougher stuff than he or Phoenix. No matter what happened, Trucy would always find a way through. 

If the spy wanted to play mind games, the Phantom was going to have to try harder than bringing up the specter of his daughter. “She’s a fighter, like her fathers," Miles replied, a hint of steel in his voice. And that meant that Miles would be making it out of here alive, because nothing was going to come between him going home to Trucy.

“A fighter? Is that what you think you are, Miles Edgeworth?" The spy scoffed. "Toretto’s team, Hobbs, and Blackquill have done all the dirty work. Is there one thing you’ve even done right?”

Miles returned the Phantom’s scornful sniff. “I’m still here,” he replied. He and Phoenix may not be the usual type that ran with Dom’s crew, but they had managed to keep up through sheer tenacity. Not bad for a couple of attorneys.

He moved slowly forward, edging closer to Blackquill. The only thing Miles had on him was the stun gun, still in his back pocket. Perhaps the Phantom didn’t know he had it. He could run the risk of attempting to pass it off to the convict, who was only a few steps away, but he could not think of way of handing it off without the spy noticing. And that was without the disadvantage of Blackquill's injury. No, Miles had to attempt capturing the Phantom himself, that would be his only shot.

The spy curled his lip. “How predictably sentimental. You’ve lost your touch over the years, Demon Prosecutor,” the Phantom continued. “Having read your files, I hardly recognize you now.”

“Is that why your imitation of me is only mediocre at best?” asked Miles, as he crossed the last bit of distance separating him from Blackquill.

“Are you okay,” Miles inquired softly.

“I’ll live,” Blackquill grunted, glowering at the Phantom.

“How very optimistic of you both,” the spy remarked sardonically. “Ah, yes, that reminds me, I still have this!” The Phantom brightened suddenly, and reached into the pocket of his suit, drawing out a small circle of gold.

Miles started forward.

The Phantom lifted Phoenix’s wedding ring to the light, studying the inscription engraved on the inside.

“To Gregory, with love,” he read. “You gave him a family heirloom, Miles. What a touching gesture, even though you could have bought him anything you wanted. Was it because he didn’t want to marry you at the time that you had to demonstrate your love with such an exaggerated act of devotion?”

Miles glared.

“It’s a pity it worked,” The Phantom said. “Think about it. You would be so much freer, were it not for ‘family’. You’re a man of many talents, Miles.”

“Maybe it’s what I wanted,” Miles replied. 

His younger self, the Demon Prosecutor that one stood in the courtroom, would have been loathe to admit that his deepest, most secret of desires had always been to reclaim what had been lost to him as a child—his family. It had taken him a long and tortuous road to acknowledge it, but once he had, he'd found that there was nothing more simple and natural than settling into an easy life of domesticity with Phoenix and Trucy.

“But you could have so much more running with Toretto. Imagine the thrill of riding with him, fighting with him, going wherever the job takes you. But instead, you chose to tie yourself down with this.”

Miles tried to imagine himself a regular on Dom’s team, and the idea was so ludicrous it was almost laughable. The jobs did not come often. While Roman lived off of his ill-gotten gains from Rio, from what he understood, Tej spent the majority of his time working on cars at his own garage in Miami. While it would be fun, to get that call once or twice a year, to come together with a capable crew he could trust with his life, he would not want a part of it, if he couldn’t also share it with his husband. The excitement, the highest of highs, would be diminished by half without Phoenix there beside him. And Trucy was the reason he was here in the first place—she deserved to grow up in a world where the law was better, where she could trust that justice, and not just selfish ambition or convenience, was served.

As well the Phantom might be able to disguise to himself, he still had not a whiff of insight or understanding of Miles at all. Miles wondered whether the spy realized this, whether he were capable of caring.

The Phantom rolled the ring between his thumb and forefinger, continuing to study it. "To Phoenix, myn genyst," he said, snorting with laughter as he read the second inscription. "This stupid thing means so much to you." The Phantom shook his head in pity.

“Would you like it back?” he asked suddenly.

Miles blinked. “If I’m basically dead, as you say, then why bother?”

“Maybe I’m willing to make you a deal,” the Phantom suggested slyly.

Miles concealed his incredulity, wondering what else might be behind the card the spy had just played. Was the Phantom stalling for time too, or was this his only way off the sinking yacht now that he and Blackquill had him cornered? 

“I’m listening,” Miles replied with caution.

“You give me Blackquill, and I give you your life and your ring back.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. Did the Phantom seriously think he would take that deal? But he pretended to consider it. It might be the opening he needed move closer to the spy.

“And how would you do that?”

“I hand you your dear husband’s ring, and let you walk off the ship before I blow the rest of it up.”

“And what will happen to Blackquill?”

The Phantom grinned frostily. “That is entirely up to him.”

“Let me see the ring first,” Miles said. "I need to know it's real." He used that excuse to approach the Phantom, stopping slightly more than an arm’s length away. He extended his left hand expectantly, while trying not to look nervous. Of all the magic that Trucy had tried to teach him, he could only perform basic misdirection, and even then he could only do it successfully some of the time. But it was the only trick he could rely on now.

The Phantom placed the ring in the center of Miles’ palm.

Miles reached behind him.

“You really think you can get me with that stun gun in your pocket? You’ve made the wrong choice, Miles Edgeworth,” the Phantom snarled.

Shit.

Something clattered to the floor, and Miles looked down. It was a small metallic marble, rolling innocuously in his direction. What—

In the same moment that the Phantom took off at a run, Blackquill shouted, “Get down!”

Miles found himself carried to the ground, tackled by a heavy body. Even with his eyes closed, a blazing brilliance blinded him, a sheer white light accompanied by a loud, deafening crack that jolted him down to the very marrow in his bones. For long moments, Miles swam in a senseless haze, his limbs heavy, his vision still an indistinct blur, his ears ringing with pain.

Had that been a small stun grenade? On top of him, he thought felt Blackquill trying to struggle to his knees, but Miles clung on with every shred of strength left in him, unwilling to let the convict go after the Phantom again.

The yacht shuddered, and Miles’ guessed that the muffled booms he felt reverberating through his chest were the detonations of the Phantom’s extra explosives.

“Miles!” Phoenix’s voice came through loud and clear over his bone conduction earpiece. “Miles! Are you okay?”

He groaned.

“The ship just exploded again, you need to get out of there!”

The world was slowly beginning to resolve into blocks of shadow and splotches of color. Blackquill had tackled him behind the Pagani Huayra, and the bulk of the supercar had shielded him from the worst visual effects of the Phantom’s flashbang.

It took him several moments to struggle to his feet, and he was still a little light-headed when he stood. He steadied himself on the Huayra, and realized that he still had Phoenix’s wedding ring clutched in his left hand. Hope seeped into Miles, he had to deliver this back to his husband. He shoved it onto the ring finger of his left hand for safekeeping.

“The ship is starting to tear itself apart!” Phoenix cried.

Miles bent down to help Blackquill up. “We’ve got to go!” he shouted. He could barely hear his own voice.

Blackquill tried again to stumble after the Phantom, but he was still weak from dizziness, and the bullet which had pierced his shoulder certainly wasn’t helping.

“The Phantom’s gone! He’s gone, Blackquill! We have to go,” Miles repeated.

The ship lurched again, taking on even more water from the new breaches in its steel hull. Miles scrambled for balance.

Dom’s voice came over his comm. “We’ve just evacuated everyone onto the rescue ship! Han is coming back for you, Miles! Hang on!”

“No! There’s no time!” Miles replied. Even he could hear the yacht groaning, and he could see, through the glass walls of the showroom, the stanchions holding up the deck above him, begin to buckle. Soon the ship would start to disintegrate around them. Whatever the Phantom had taken out in the last blast, he was not going to leave the destruction of the _Czar Ivan_ and all of its evidence to chance.

Miles looked down at the matte gold Pagani Huayra he was leaning on.

He raised his voice, hoping that his earpiece could still transmit. “Tell them to bring the cargo ship around to the stern, as close to the _Czar Ivan_ as they can.”

“What are you going to do?” Phoenix gasped.

“Something stupid,” Miles replied.

“Then don’t!”

Miles opened the doors to the Pagani. The key fob was already inside, a convenient place to keep it, because there was no way to jack a supercar from a yacht—there simply wasn’t a place to go. Except that was exactly what Miles was going to do now. He motioned Blackquill to get in the passenger’s seat.

“Too late,” Miles said.

He sat himself down, and switched on the ignition. He revved the six-liter V12 engine, putting his hands on the steering wheel and watching the needle of the tachometer dance on the chrome-accented dashboard through the haze of his exhausted photoreceptors. It was a pity he couldn’t quite hear it sing.

He glanced Blackquill, who slowly realized his intentions, and stared back at him in horror. Miles went over the plans of the ship in his head. He had a straight shot out on this, the lowest deck, provided he stuck to the middle of the yacht. With over seven-hundred horsepower, he didn’t need much distance to reach the Huayra’s top speed. He waited for the right moment. The ship sank even more, the stern rising quickly enough that even Miles could feel it tilt. It was now or never.

“We’re coming now!” Miles shouted.

“We’re almost in position!” Phoenix responded.

Almost was going to have to be good enough.

Miles gunned it, and the Pagani lurched forward, its wheels squealing against the smooth flooring of the car garage, before it found purchase. Miles pushed his foot all the way down on the throttle, and didn’t lift it, even as they crashed through the showroom’s glass walls, the Huayra grinding shards under its tires. He sped through the interior of the ship, breaking through bulkheads, careening through cabins. Out of the corner of his eye, through the fire and smoke that was threatening to engulf the yacht, Miles thought he could see, through a few sections of blasted sections of hull, the night sky.

The beams supporting the weight of the decks were beginning to crumple, weakened by the detonations and the heaving weight of the ship itself. The deck above them was beginning to cave, large cracks starting to form in the ceiling, showering dust and raining flakes of debris onto his windshield. The Pagani tossed furniture to the side as it continued uphill, crushing detritus under its chassis and racing just ahead as the deck above collapsed in clouds of refuse in his rear view mirror. Miles kept his foot down on the Huayra as it continued to accelerate, tearing forward with the whine all of its twelve cylinders being pushed to maximum.

“We’re as close as we can get!” Phoenix shrieked.

Miles held his breath as he spotted the opening of the yacht’s stern, the massive wall of glass already blown out by the explosions, opening onto the _Czar Ivan's_ lowest afterdeck. The ship had pitched its bow so deep into the water and thrown its aft end up so high, that he could see nothing but the stars through the smoke. The Huayra had just hit its final gear, and then there was was nothing but the last bit of the yacht’s stern through Miles windshield before it disappeared under his wheels. He had no idea how far away Interpol’s container ship was, and could only hope, as the Pagani cleared the ramp entirely and sailed into the empty air, that he was going fast enough to make it across the yawning gap to the other side.

All breath left his body as he felt a moment of weightlessness, as if he might really be flying, as if he might really make it. Then, it seemed too soon that their trajectory started turning downward and the asphalt surface of the cargo ship came rushing into view. His stomach flew into his throat as he began to plummet.

“Get out!” Miles commanded, hoping that he could manage to time this correctly. Long seconds passed, as the tarmac surface of the empty container ship began to resolve in his vision. Just when it might seem too late, he threw open the doors to the Huayra and tossed himself out.

Had he done it too early, he wondered, before he hit the ground on his side in a roll. He grit his teeth against the pain as the impact winded him and the momentum carried him away from the car.

The Pagani, beholden to gravity, smashed into the surface of the ship, its metal chassis crumpling and twisting. It bounced, and then flipped over several times, shedding body parts and hurling wreckage with each revolution. It finally skidded and settled shakily on what was left of its roof halfway down the length of the ship, naught but a stripped aluminum skeleton.

From a hatch in the deck, Phoenix emerged, at the front of a whole host of personnel who spilled out behind him. Miles watched, a little dazed as his husband scrambled over to him, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste.

“Miles! Holy shit! Are you alive? Are you okay?”

Drawing an agonizing breath, Miles nodded, struggling to push himself up from his prone position. Phoenix knelt before him, his brows creased with concern.

“We got ‘em, let’s move!” Miles heard Dom over his earpiece.

It was then that the flames engulfing the _Czar Ivan_ flared. Miles turned his face away and closed his eyes instinctively, unable to do much else, but then strong arms wrapped him in an embrace—it was Phoenix, curling protectively over him.

Even Miles could hear the ensuing explosion. Though he was shielded by his husband’s body, he still felt the gust of scorching wind whistle past, choking out all the oxygen in the air. The _Czar Ivan_ uttered a final groan as its superstructure folded, one deck into the next, like a tired accordion, and the ship’s disintegrating frame succumbed to the ocean.

Miles coughed, grimacing in agony when he could finally draw a breath of cool air into his lungs again.

“Phoenix,” he croaked.

His husband smiled down upon him, Phoenix’s cheeks smudged tears, the silhouette of his spikes framed by the orange glow of the blaze aboard what remained of the crumbling yacht.

“Shh, I’ve got you, Miles,” Phoenix murmured quietly.

“Blackquill?”

Phoenix turned his head. “Han’s got him. They’re both okay.”

Miles heaved a sigh of relief, which caused him to wince again. He laid back gingerly, twining his fingers in his husband’s hand and figuring it was best not to move for a bit.

“Hey,” Phoenix said suddenly, as he looked down and noticed the ring on Miles’ right hand. “Is that…”

Miles nodded.

“Oh my god.” Phoenix’s voice wavered. Then Phoenix held him close and pressed a fierce kiss to his temple, exhaling a puff of warm air. “You crazy son of a bitch,” he sniffled, as he slid his wedding ring off of Miles’ finger, and placed it back where it belonged

Miles chuckled, and then grimaced. He remained in his husband’s arms on the ship’s deck until two medics in Interpol fatigues with red crosses on their jackets gently moved Phoenix aside. He let the medics examine him with cool efficiency while Phoenix hovered close by, ready to render assistance and waiting anxiously for their diagnosis.

Its engines rumbling, the cargo ship that Interpol had commandeered sped away from the sinking remains of the _Czar Ivan_ , its large, sedate bulk cutting through the ocean waves as it headed back to port.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Naye's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naye) feedback is always invaluable, and I thank her kindness for taking time out of her busy fic-writing evenings to give my fic a quick beta! Always a big thank you to everyone who stops by and drops kudos and comments!
> 
>  **Cars mentioned in this chapter:**  
>  Alexei Platonov's [Pagani Huayra](https://imgur.com/a/RnXU8Gv)  
> Alexei Platonov's [Ferrari La Ferrari](https://imgur.com/a/UBqAIJj)  
> Alexei Platonov's [Porsche 918](https://imgur.com/a/hANVO5Q)  
> Alexei Platonov's [Lamborghini Aventador](https://imgur.com/a/hS42r0S)  
> Alexei Platonov's [McLaren P1](https://imgur.com/a/dENMmKy)
> 
> You can find me as [the-wintry-mizzenmast](http://the-wintry-mizzenmast.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, and on the [Narumitsu Discord Server](http://narumitsuweek.tumblr.com/post/160694619495/narumitsu-discord-server) as skuldchan. Come say hi and have a chat!


	9. All for the Family

Dawn had broken by the time the container ship had returned to the port of Long Beach, where Franziska von Karma and a handful of agents from Interpol were waiting. Simon Blackquill was whisked away for medical treatment, while the rest of them, suffering only minor injuries and a few cracked ribs, had been given strong painkillers while on the cargo ship and then transported to Interpol's local Los Angeles headquarters. There, they were held together in a large communal holding cell while Luke Hobbs and Franziska, who had gone a bit rogue herself in corralling Interpol resources for their rescue, were taken away to brief their commanders. 

It was not the first time that Miles and Phoenix had been detained, though it had been several years since they’d last found themselves behind bars. On the contrary, it appeared to be a more regular occurrence for the majority of Dom’s team, who instead of being worried about the lengthy list of criminal charges they might be facing, took the opportunity of the down time to relax and catch a few winks. Leo and Santos had fallen asleep, leaning on each other, while Roman was nestled in a corner, his arms folded, his head lolling against the concrete wall. Ramsey and Tej were slouched next to him, trying not to be checking out the room’s security systems too conspicuously. Letty was stretched out on a bench that she shared only with Toretto, her back propped up against his shoulder, as Dom sat patiently, staring at nothing in particular, lost in thought.

Miles wasn’t certain how this would play out. Even if Interpol chose to disregard the trespass of the _Czar Ivan_ and its subsequent sinking, it was more difficult to overlook their tampering of the cruise ship and the hijack of one of its landing craft. The list of potential charges that could be pressed was non-trivial. He was reassured somehow by the serenity of Dom and his crew, though he was unsure how much of their composure was the belief that higher powers, such as the oft-mentioned Mr. Nobody, might arrange to let them off the hook, or their conviction that despite the letter of the law, they had stuck to their code, they had done the right thing. Miles found his comfort in the latter, and realized as he met Toretto’s gaze, that so did Dom.

Phoenix sat anxiously beside him, glancing over at the door few every minutes, every time they could hear faint footsteps in the corridor. Miles put a reassuring hand on his husband’s knee, sympathetic to Phoenix’s agitation. Han had gone with the rest of the Interpol agents, but not before exchanging a long, heartfelt embrace with Toretto, and a few words that Miles had been too far away to overhear. When they parted, Dom’s usually neutral, stoic expression carried a hint of wistful regret—the anguish of things that could never be—as he had watched Han retreat with the rest of the Interpol contingent. Phoenix had moved to follow Han, but Miles had held him back. They hadn’t seen Han since.

“I’m sure that Han will go when he’s finished everything he needs to do,” Miles said quietly.

Phoenix nodded. 

They sat quietly until two Interpol agents entered the room, and announced that they would each have to give individual statements before they could be released. They took Dom and Letty away first. This jolted everyone who had been napping awake, and as they awaited their turn to be interviewed, they struck up a conversation to keep the exhaustion and boredom at bay. Roman regaled both Miles and Phoenix with tales of their adventures, recounting in great detail his own role in the heist of one hundred million dollars from a drug lord in Rio de Janeiro, the takedown of a Soviet cargo aircraft with just their vehicles, and the theft of a Lycan Hypersport from a Jordanian prince in Abu Dhabi. Miles listened, quiet but dubious, making a mental note to cross-reference the veracity of Roman’s account with more credible sources when he had some free time.

Eventually, Dom and Letty returned, and the Interpol officers beckoned to Phoenix and him for their statements. Miles was led to a simple interrogation suite, complete with camera, tape recorder, and two-way mirror, to recount his perspective of their entire adventure. As he sat across two expressionless Interpol agents scribbling notes, the races, the abduction of Simon Blackquill, and the commandeering of the megayacht already seemed a lifetime away.

When Miles was done, they brought him back to the detention cell, but Phoenix was still being interviewed. He was beginning to feel the effects of the adrenaline that had been pumping through his system all night begin to fade, and rode through the crash in dignified silence, too tired to say much to anyone on Dom’s crew, until Letty called for his attention.

“Hey, Miles.”

“What?”

“You know if you ever need anything, we got your backs, right?”

Miles smiled wanly. “You can call me too if you find yourself in a tight spot.”

“Yeah, if we need a lawyer,” said Tej.

Letty held out her hand. “Gimme your phone.”

Miles reached deep into the inside pocket of his jacket, realizing for the first time how dusty, singed, and slashed his entire tuxedo was. He’d have to get a new one tailored, maybe as a well-deserved treat after the exploits of these past few days. He unlocked his phone and handed it over. 

A small, lopsided smile crept up on Letty’s face as she saw the photo he used as his background. “That your kid?”

“Her name is Trucy.”

“She’s big. You and Phoenix must’ve started early.” Letty winked at him, and then leaned over to show Dom.

Roman whistled suggestively about how early they might have started, but then got a little confused about how it usually worked between two men.

Miles chuckled. “We adopted her when she was eight.”

Dom grinned. “She’s cute,” he said, taking the phone from his wife and passing it around the cell. 

It made the rounds to each person, who had something complimentary to say about his daughter, until Ramsey handed it back to him. His contacts app was open—everybody had put their phone numbers in. Someone had even entered Leo and Santos’ numbers, though they had been taken away for interview.

“Thank you,” Miles said softly, scrolling with astonishment through the new items in his address book. He blinked quickly, tamping down the rising swell of emotion. His gaze lingered on his background image, Trucy smiling into the camera with her puppet, Mister Hat, leaning over her shoulder before he turned off his screen and put his phone back into his pocket. 

He missed his daughter. He and Phoenix and been gone for days, and whenever that happened, rare though it was, she worried. Though she did her best to hide her fear, Miles knew that she dreaded being left by them, even for one or two nights, on the off chance that she might end up inadvertently abandoned again. Miles understood the feeling of having lost a parent, the despair of having no family left alive in the world. Even at her age, Trucy still slept with her door slightly ajar, so she would never have to be alone. Miles ached to hold his daughter, to smooth her hair and tell her that everything was all right. It was long past time to pick her up from her grandmother’s. 

As the minutes stretched into hours, Phoenix was released at last, escorted back into the room by an Interpol officer together with Maya Fey, who was so exhausted that Phoenix was practically carrying her as she shuffled in. She introduced herself to Toretto’s team as the Master of Kurain, and explained briefly the nature of spirit channeling, her work as a spirit medium, and that it was she, at the request of Franziska von Karma, who had channeled Han to assist in their rescue. 

Roman sat through her explanation, his eyes wide in bewilderment and shock. When she finished, she bowed and apologized for any surprise or offense she might have caused. 

A thoughtful silence fell. Roman opened his mouth to say something, but Tej smacked him in the arm and shook his head. Roman clapped his trap shut.

“I’m glad you called Han, Maya,” Dom said finally, inclining his head. “It was good to see him.” He got up, and offered her his hand in gratitude. “You’re good with us.”

The look on Maya’s face as she lifted her head was one of profound relief. 

“Thank you,” Letty added. 

It was afternoon before Hobbs and Franziska rejoined them, and they were released. Simon Blackquill was in good condition despite suffering from a bullet wound, blood loss, and cracked ribs, and would be transferred to Santa Muerte personally by Hobbs after his discharge from the hospital. Franziska confirmed that Interpol would not be pressing any charges for their little misadventure, though she indicated that she might have, if ‘failure resulting in overload of paperwork’ were an actual offense. 

They stood at the rear compound of Interpol’s headquarters, waiting for logistical arrangements to be made.

“Does that mean you’ll be staying for a couple of days?” Phoenix asked, brightly.

“I’ll postpone my flight out by a day, but only account of Trucy,” Franziska answered with a sniff, and then strode back into the building with only a curt goodbye, ostensibly to make a start on the massive pile of administrative tasks she was required to complete in the wake of their daring deeds.

Their operation over due to their failure to capture the Phantom, they were all sent home, or whatever temporary lodgings they had, though most had to stop off in Long Beach or the warehouse in Vernon first to retrieve their cars. Regrettably, an Interpol officer had asked for the keys to the McLaren 720S back, which Miles had handed over reluctantly. Interpol had to provide a driver to take them home.

“I take it there’s no final brief,” Miles asked to Hobbs as the team broke and started going their separate ways. 

Hobbs smirked. “Oh, I don’t know, they always hold something. You’ll see in a bit,” he replied cryptically, and patted Miles gently on the shoulder before heading off.

This left Miles and Phoenix to say their goodbyes to Maya, who was unable to stay, owing to her duties as Master in Kurain Village. Miles had been of a half a mind to berate for her agreeing to Franziska’s plan and endanger herself, but she looked so drained that he didn’t have the heart. Of course she would be willing to do anything, if that meant saving her friends. He was grateful to have a such a generous friend in her.

“I’ll come down again for a visit by the end of the summer,” she promised, shooting them both a wan smile. She looked pale and utterly spent, like she might keel over and sleep the whole ride home, so Miles and Phoenix didn’t keep her.

Their own ride home was silent, the Interpol-issued Ford Focus crawling slowly through the congested downtown rush hour traffic. Miles closed his eyes, intending just to doze, but had to be shaken awake by Phoenix when the car arrived at their home. His mother-in-law’s unmistakable beige Toyota Corolla was parked in their driveway, and Miles spirits soared as he realized that River had brought Trucy home already. 

“I texted Mom while we were back at Inter—” Phoenix said, and before he could finish Miles had pulled him into a kiss. 

They piled out of the car quickly, thanking the driver for the ride. They practically jogged up their front door, which flung open before they could even knock. Trucy launched herself into their arms. 

“Dad! Daddy!” she cried, tears forming at the corners of her eyes as they closed around her and held her tight. “I missed you!”

Miles smiled and let his daughter sling an arm around his neck, sucking in a breath quickly as his ribs protested. He ignored the pain, and instead closed his eyes and sank deep into the warmth of his family. He was grateful that through all that he and Phoenix had waded through these past few days, Trucy was still at home to greet them when they came through the door.

He tightened his grip around her waist, as she buried her tears and sobbed into his shoulder. The last few days had been the longest that the both of her fathers had ever been away.

“I missed you too,” Miles whispered.

* * *

The rear door of the Terradyne Gurkha opened, and Hobbs shoved the freshly discharged Simon Blackquill into the back of the armored patrol vehicle across from where Miles was perched. Blackquill was once again restrained, his hands separated by a solid steel bar linking the handcuffs binding his wrists.

“Is that strictly necessary?” Miles asked. 

“No,” replied Hobbs, “but do you have the key to Interpol’s cuffs?”

The prisoner sat obediently, his expression remaining calm and neutral, though his sharp gaze seemed to scrutinize Miles from behind the thick tangles of his bangs. He looked no worse for the wear for having been kidnapped and interrogated by the Phantom, shot in the shoulder, hit with a miniature stun grenade, and having jumped from a plummeting supercar that Miles himself had driven off the edge of a yacht the length of one and a half football fields just three days ago. 

Meanwhile, Miles had still been waking up in the middle of the night from the ache of his broken ribs to take more ibuprofen just so he could breathe properly. And he had hissed more than once on the ride over with Hobbs, the bouncing of the Terradyne as it went over a few potholes on the highway causing jolts of pain to shoot through his rattled thorax.

He had left Phoenix with Trucy at home on this occasion, to accompany Hobbs on the escort of Blackquill to his original intended destination of Santa Muerte State Prison. Prior to the events of a few days ago, neither he or no Phoenix could have been certain of Blackquill’s loyalties. There had always remained the possibility, if the murder of Metis Cykes had indeed been perpetrated by the Phantom, that Blackquill had been covering for the spy. Though he had only spent a few scant hours in the convict’s company, Miles knew now that Blackquill was no double agent. If he believed the insistence of the young Athena Cykes, whom he had met two years ago, Blackquill was also no murderer. Who then, was the real killer? He hoped that Simon would be willing to reveal something to him today, on account of all that they had gone through. Phoenix reckoned that Blackquill would be more willing to share that with a fellow prosecutor, and so had elected to stay home with their daughter.

“I’m sorry about the cuffs,” Miles apologized.

Blackquill snorted through his nose, unfazed. “I’m a prisoner on death row. What am I allowed to expect?”

“Better than what you’re getting.”

The prisoner chuckled darkly, as Hobbs piled into the front seat of the vehicle and started the engine. They had no escort other than this man, who some cheeky member of Dom’s crew had entered into his contacts as ‘Samoan Thor’. If the Phantom wanted to attempt abducting Blackquill again, he would have Special Agent Luke Hobbs, a military vehicle, and a serious arsenal of artillery to contend with. 

They pulled out of the parking lot of the hospital, and started their journey to Santa Muerte, where all of California’s death row prisoners were held.

“I am receiving exactly what I deserve,” Blackquill said.

“I don’t believe that for a second. Not after what I saw the other day,” replied Miles, his brows knitting briefly.

“Whether you believe or not is your own choice,” returned Blackquill with equanimity.

“I also find it difficult to believe that Athena Cykes is lying about your innocence,” tried Miles, watching Blackquill’s reaction closely as he dropped that name. 

There was a subtle flicker of something in Blackquill’s dark eyes, but it disappeared just as quickly as it had come, and in the end Miles couldn’t be sure that he had seen anything at all. If it had been appropriate, he would have brought Trucy along with him, for she was good at reading people, and could discern the subtle micro-movements that indicated deception. 

Blackquill answered a moment late. 

“Your absence from the courtroom has made you soft, Edgeworth-dono, if you are willing to take for truth the account of a traumatized child who had seen her mother’s bloody corpse,” he said. 

“I’ve also seen your behavior with my own eyes.”

Blackquill smirked. “Then you know that by my skill with the sword, it was no challenge for me to kill Metis Cykes, just as I could have easily killed anybody on that yacht.”

Miles folded his arms across his chest, and regarded the prisoner sitting across from him. Blackquill’s shoulders were relaxed, his smile cordial. He had not expected that the convict might still be so tight-lipped.

“If you want to end this Dark Age of the Law by forcing a different confession from me, I’m afraid there is nothing but disappointment in your future.”

“Nevertheless, I do not intend to give up.”

Blackquill’s lips twitched. “Is that tenacity the influence of a certain former defense attorney?”

Then it was Miles’ turn to smile, as he executed a small turnabout in their conversation. “If that is what you perceive, then perhaps our plans are proceeding apace.” 

He waited for Blackquill to bite the bait that he had dangled, and studied him carefully as the prisoner warred internally whether to rise to so obvious a lure. 

In the reckoning of this mission, there was no doubt over its failure. Interpol and the DSS had set out to capture the Phantom, who was still likely at large. Interpol reported that the _Czar Ivan’s_ mini-submarine had not been found in the wreckage of the ship, meaning that the spy had made a successful getaway in the end, despite all their efforts. In total, they were several vehicles and a multimillion dollar superyacht down, even though Simon Blackquill and Phoenix’s wedding ring had been retrieved. Though Interpol were likely not too happy with the results, neither was the Phantom, who had similarly risked much for little gain, as the spy had revealed information on his _modus operandi_ , including the most important detail, which was that whatever Blackquill had on him, was important enough to the Phantom to attempt his own private operation. Who was to say he couldn’t try again a second time?

Finally, Blackquill’s curiosity outweighed his caution. “If the Demon Prosecutor is plotting with his disgraced ex-attorney husband, then this must be something indeed that will bring the legal system to its very knees,” he remarked. “For better or for worse, I wonder.” 

The smile on Miles’ face grew ever so slightly. This was something he had not expected to gain when he had first set out on this mission, however tentatively—Blackquill’s interest, and his possible cooperation. The convict had saved him from the Phantom’s flashbang, tackling him to the ground despite his injured shoulder, instead of pursuing the spy. Whether that had been a conscious choice on the his part, or merely his protective instinct, it didn’t matter. Blackquill was as aware of the implications of that action as Miles was. 

“We will reshape everything you know,” Miles said. He had been working on that for years, even before Phoenix’s disbarment, before Blackquill’s conviction in the UR-1 incident. The Dark Age of the Law had not set him back, it merely underscored the importance of the work he had dedicated himself to. 

“Would you like a seat on the front lines?” Miles offered.

Blackquill snorted. “I don't see how that's possible.”

“When the time is right, we will meet again, Simon Blackquill,” Miles replied cryptically.

Blackquill leaned his back against the side of the vehicle as they rattled onward in the dusty, hot summer to Santa Muerte. He was not willing to offer much, but Miles was willing to take it nonetheless. 

“I am curious to see what you have in store.”

Miles nodded. Being able to count Simon Blackquill on his side—that was the greatest victory that he had achieved in this adventure. If he and Phoenix had guessed correctly, it would be less than two years before he would be paying Santa Muerte a visit.

* * *

It was not a long drive from the Hollywood Hills over to the Echo Park address that Dom had texted him, but Trucy bounced in the backseat the entire ride over, practically vibrating with pent-up excitement at the opportunity to meet her two fathers’ new found friends from their adventures a couple of weeks ago. Miles had assured her that the party would probably be quite boring, as there were no other girls her age attending. Hobbs’ daughter, Samantha, was three years younger than Trucy, but the prospect of being alone in her age group hardly fazed her. 

Miles parked his Alfa Romeo GTV on the street between Roman’s orange Corvette and a black Ferrari 488 that he guessed must belong to Tej. Their little group of three threaded their way past the cars crowding the driveway—Dom’s classic Charger, a blue Nissan GT-R R34 imported from Japan, a Honda NSX, and even a Chrysler minivan—and joined the festivities that were underway. It seemed that Dom hosted a barbeque every year at the end of their jobs, a family tradition that harkened back to Toretto’s own father. Now that Dom was the patriarch, the tradition continued, even though it was his sister, Mia who now resided in the family home with her husband, Brian. 

Miles had convinced himself that it was sheer curiosity that had provided the impetus behind his attendance—the chance to finally meet Brian O’Conner, the former FBI agent whose absence in Toretto’s team still left a perceptible void. But as the pleasant aroma of brisket, ribs, and burgers on the grill grew thicker as he approached the backyard, he had to admit that his first opportunity to attend a real family barbeque—an activity that Manfred von Karma had always sneered at for being too plebeian—had also been pretty tempting. 

Trucy patiently managed the minimum required etiquette as Miles and Phoenix introduced her to Hobbs, his daughter, Samantha, and everyone else in Toretto’s team, before she ran off with Samantha to peer curiously at the engine of the Camaro, which Letty was just putting the finishing touches on. They watched as that rare smile found its way onto Letty’s face, and she patiently explained all the modifications she had made to the two girls. 

Phoenix shook his head. “You’re a bad influence on her, Miles,” he murmured confidentially.

“Nonsense,” Miles sniffed. “Speed is in her nature. And I’m not the one that takes her along to cheat at poker.”

Phoenix chuckled. “Fine, we’re both bad influences.”

Miles found he had no good rebuttal for that. When it was Trucy’s turn to learn to drive, he would teach her how to properly control her car. And whatever she wanted to do with that knowledge in the future, well, he would only involve himself so much as she wanted him. She was on the cusp of her teenage years, and he understood that soon she would want to stretch her own wings with less and less parental supervision.

They made their way to the table where a few sides had been laid out in the middle—coleslaw, pasta salad, tortilla chips and homemade _pico de gallo_ —but Tej had just snagged the last Corona.

“Sorry, man,” Tej said, cracking it open. “But I think Brian’s bringing out something that suits your tastes more.” He inclined his head, and Miles turned. 

A blond man with close-cropped blond hair and a few days’ worth of unshaven scruff covering his chin offered up two bottles of an ice-cold Belgian trappist ale. “Here,” he said, the corners of his blue eyes creasing as he smiled warmly. “Dom thought you might prefer these, so I’ve been saving them for you two.”

“Thanks.” Miles took a bottle gratefully. He nodded his thanks over to Dom, who nodded back curtly, as he continued minding the barbeque. 

“Brian O’Conner, by the way,” the man extended his hand. 

“Miles Edgeworth. And this is my husband, Phoenix Wright.” They exchanged warm pleasantries. Miles noticed a flicker of recognition at the mention of Phoenix's name in Brian’s eyes, but O’Conner was too polite to say anything. Brian looked about the yard, and pointed out his wife, Mia, who was sitting in the grass with Ramsey, playing with a fair-haired toddler named Jack who held a model Toyota Supra in his chubby hands. Brian called out to her, and Toretto’s sister waved at them. She was heavily pregnant with their second child.

“Thanks for having us over,” Miles said, turning back to Brian.

Brian shook head. “Nah, don’t worry about it. Dom throws this every year. It’s always nice to bring new faces in. Thanks for being there when they needed you.”

Miles snorted. “I’m pretty sure it was the other way around,” he said wryly. “We joined up for our own selfish reasons.”

“Don’t we all?” Brian grinned, and Miles caught a fleeting glimpse of a reckless thrill seeker and adrenaline junkie, dodging bullets and putting pedal to the metal, revelling in living on the edge. And then he was gone, and replaced by the ordinary, affable family man with a wife and kid, and another one on the way. Miles could see that a small part of O’Conner still yearned to run with Dom’s crew, but he had made the conscious choice to prioritize his own family over partaking in Toretto’s adventures. 

“Why don’t you come with me to the track sometime?” Miles suggested suddenly, completely out of the blue. 

Brian’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I don’t know if I’m suited to track driving,” he hesitated.

“Have you tried it?”

“Not really.”

“You’d be surprised at how much fun it is.”

“Yeah?”

“Come with me and I can show you the ropes,” Miles said. He cocked his head in the direction of O’Conner’s driveway. “That R34 can’t spend the rest of its life just making grocery runs.”

“Mmm, I don’t know,” said Brian, still skeptical.

“Are you scared you’ll lose to me?” asked Miles, with a small smile.

A slow grin spread across Brian’s face. “Are you seriously challenging me to a race right now?”

“Or we could just stand here and talk about it all day.” 

Brian laughed. “Okay,” he said finally, intrigued. “Next time you go, you give me a call.”

“I will,” Miles promised. 

“You know you're going down right? I've even beaten Dom before.”

Miles smirked. “Have you? Roman told me Dom let up on the throttle during your drag race in Rio.”

Brian's expression clouded briefly. “I won that fair and square,” he muttered. “You're on, buddy.”

They exchanged phone numbers, before Brian went over to his wife and his son, leaving Miles and Phoenix alone for a moment.

“You’ve never invited anybody to track days before,” said Phoenix.

Miles studied Brian, as he swept a giggling Jack up in his arms, and showered his face with kisses. “He needs an outlet.”

“You can tell just by chatting with him for five minutes?” Phoenix raised an eyebrow.

“It takes one to know one.”

Phoenix chuckled. That, he understood. He took Miles’ hand, and gave it a squeeze. Then Mia waved them over, and they rejoined the party, mingling and laughing with everyone in Dom’s family.

When the meat was done on the grill, they gathered all the food together, and crammed everyone around the table in a mismatched collection of old lawn chairs and a few slightly scorched and rickety wooden ones carried out from inside the house. Everything here had history and was well-loved, even though they had just remodeled the house. They were fifteen in all, including the children, jostled together so closely there was hardly any elbow room.

Dom took his place at the head of the table. “Miles,” he suggested, “would you like to bless our table?”

Miles blinked for but a moment. “Sure,” he said gamely. 

Everyone bowed their heads and closed their eyes, joining hands with those sitting beside them. Miles could hardly recall the last grace he had shared, it must have been when his father had still been alive. Agnostic at best, he had never carried on the tradition, but here, in the midst of Dominic Toretto’s family, with Phoenix and Trucy on either side of him, their hands folded in his, it didn’t seem like such a bad thing to start up again.

Miles closed his eyes, and let all that he was grateful for give him the right words.

“Thank you for this gathering of family. We remember today the spirits of those who have left us behind. Thank you for bringing Simon Blackquill back, and thank you for the continued safety of all of our loved ones. Finally, we thank you for all of life’s small blessings—good friends, good food, good company, and most of all, good cars.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the greatest boons of writing fanfiction, besides the unlimited special effects budget, is that Brian O’Conner is technically still alive in _Fast and Furious_ canon.
> 
> If you’re wondering about the references I have made to Miles’ and Phoenix’s plans, and my inclusion of the character of Phoenix’s mother, River, you may already have guessed correctly that this is the same Miles Edgeworth and Phoenix Wright as from my series, [Hold On When You Get Love](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1123773). If you enjoyed this fanfic and want to read more about their past and continued adventures (minus the Fast and Furious characters), I invite you to check it out.
> 
>  **Cars mentioned in this chapter:**  
>  Luke Hobb’s [Terradyne Gurkha Armored Patrol Vehicle](https://imgur.com/a/90vdrOe)  
> Miles Edgeworth’s [Alfa Romeo GTV](https://imgur.com/a/Ja3Rg22)  
> Tej Parker’s [Ferrari 488](https://imgur.com/a/uvpU2X1)  
> Brian O’Conner’s [Nissan Skyline GT-R (R34)](https://imgur.com/a/T4wJ8nk)  
> Mia Toretto’s [Honda NSX](https://imgur.com/a/vsfIb9o)  
> Jack O’Conner’s model [Toyota Supra](https://imgur.com/a/C0kZy6O)  
> Interpol’s [Ford Focus](https://imgur.com/a/BwEe2hb)  
> River Wright’s [Toyota Corolla](https://imgur.com/a/LtsPuBs)


	10. If You Live for Something (Epilogue)

Miles Edgeworth pushed aside the sliding glass door and let himself out onto his veranda, which opened onto a shimmering nighttime view of the city of Los Angeles. The warm August breeze was just beginning to cool, but even so he balanced two cups of steaming hot Darjeeling on their saucers, setting them down on the table beside the sectional.

Phoenix smiled at him. “Thanks,” he said.

They nestled together on the outdoor sofa, enjoying a quiet moment. Their plans were finally moving, the pilot of the Jurist System scheduled to go ahead in a few weeks’ time, though the events had not proceeded without a few twists and turns, most notably the death Trucy’s biological father, and the re-emergence of her mother. The convergence of the complex weave of family ties in the Wright Anything Agency, the new legal system pilot, and his own recent acceptance of the role of Chief Prosecutor, which he would take up in December, was headache enough that he was grateful that Phoenix had promised him a night off. A night where he didn’t have to think about his work, his life, the careful schemes that had been laid after long years of effort. Miles just wanted to be able to relax in the company of his husband. Even Trucy was out of the house for night, kindly substituting last minute for the O’Conners’ babysitter, who had fallen ill. 

Phoenix had shaved and put on a suit for the occasion, even though in lieu of going out, he'd cooked Miles a nice dinner to celebrate. Miles guessed that Phoenix must have been practicing in the kitchen all those late nights he spent at the office. It wasn’t a bad plan for the night, as now they were able to enjoy the view out on the terrace together. Miles pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose—a new addition he’d had to adopt a few months ago because his vision wasn’t what it had been in his youth—and reclined into his husband’s arm, slung around his shoulders. In quiet contemplation, they gazed out onto the scintillating glow of the city, the buildings, boulevards, and cars coalescing into a swarm of light that pierced the darkness of the night. Ordinarily, they might have shared half of a bottle of wine, but Phoenix had said he was not in the mood for alcohol, hence the tea.

“Damn, it’s pretty up here,” Phoenix murmured finally.

“You’ve been saying that for the past three years since we moved.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No.” Miles admitted with a smile, as Phoenix pressed a kiss to his temple. It was indeed quite the breathtaking panorama.

“You know what other view, I like though?”

“What?” Miles asked.

“The one from Big Tujunga Canyon,” Phoenix waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“It’s nice there during the day,” Miles replied mildly, slightly perplexed because the view in Tujunga was that of mountains and valleys, and not of the city. Miles paused, piecing the together the lack of alcohol during and after dinner, and Phoenix’s sudden mention of the canyons. 

“Are you trying to tell me to let off some steam by going for a drive?”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility, and you just bought yourself a new car.”

“Tujunga is filled with kids trying to drift their Honda Civics on Friday nights, and badly, might I add.” Miles rolled his eyes. His husband should know by now that he wanted no part in young twenty-somethings blaring rap music and mishandling nitrous.

“Not necessarily,” said Phoenix, cryptically.

Miles raised an eyebrow, and then his cell phone buzzed, flashing its screen briefly with a text message from where it sat on the table. That’s funny, he thought, he could’ve sworn he’d turned on ‘do not disturb’ mode for the evening.

He was going to ignore the message, but then Phoenix cocked his head toward it. “Maybe you should get that,” he suggested.

Miles picked up his phone, frowning again in suspicion at his husband, but his expression turned quickly to one of disbelief as he stared at the sender of the message. 

Dominic Toretto.

It had been just over a year since either of them had last seen the man, since they had parted ways with the crew after the family barbeque. The text message contained nothing but a time and some coordinates, which when opened in his maps app, pointed him to Big Tujunga Canyon. If they were going to make it there in time, they would have to leave now, and he would have to drive fast.

Miles regarded his husband. “You’ve been planning this,” he accused.

Phoenix chuckled. “I’ve been planning this,” he said, spreading his arms wide to encompass the dinner, the veranda, their non-alcoholic drinks. “Hector’s been planning that,” he pointed at Miles’ phone.

Phoenix grinned at him proudly, and Miles saw in his husband’s eyes, the briefest spark of Phoenix’s old courtroom intensity—his unyielding determination, his reckless enjoyment of flying by the seat of his pants and taking his chances—long buried, but not lost. They used to have so much fun in there, and suddenly Miles ached to rekindle that experience again, not like in the old days, but as the men they were now, having shared between them almost a decade of love and trust. His stomach fluttered in anticipation when he realized that that time might come again, sooner rather than later, at long last. But until then…

“So, are we going or not?” Phoenix asked.

Miles broke out into a grin that matched his husband’s silly, excited expression. He had never doubted that Phoenix loved him, but sometimes his husband staggered him with just how much and how profoundly he did. Miles snatched his husband, fingers bunching around the fabric of Phoenix’s lapels, yanked him close and pressed an exuberant, fervent kiss to his lips.

“Let’s go,” he said when they parted, leaving Phoenix breathless and slightly dazed. 

They abandoned everything—the teacups, the remainders of dinner, the dishes—in a mad scramble for the garage. They piled into Miles’ new radiantly crimson Alfa Romeo 4C, which he’d bought it as a treat to himself for his impending return to the Prosecutor’s Office. They sped off into the night.

* * *

The music and thumping bass line weren’t as bad as he remembered, thought Miles, as the bouncers standing beside their Range Rovers noted the license plate of his car, and waved him into the party. He remained puzzled by the morass of scantily clad young women choosing to come all the way out here instead of cutting loose inside of a club downtown, but then he supposed he might not be the only type who appreciated the purr of an engine being pushed into the red zone. Miles found he also didn’t mind the way that Phoenix’s eyes occasionally wandered anymore, reeled in by the occasional female buttcheek passing by his window, barely covered by a pair of neon pink hot shorts.

He suddenly realized that he was staring at the same person too—albeit with more skepticism—and quickly shifted his gaze back to where he was going. He glided slowly through the crowd, which parted to let him through as he looked for Toretto’s unmistakable classic Charger. He spotted Letty beside her grey Camaro, and she pointed further ahead of them still. So he kept going, rolling past a collection of cars that he recognized as belonging to Hector and Vincent from their encounter last year, along with some new additions, including a yellow Pagani Huayra, which brought back thrilling memories.

Finally, the dancing crowd thinned, and turned into a crowd gathered for the impending race. Toretto was waiting for him at the starting line, leaning casually against the side of his Dodge Charger. Dom cracked a smile as Miles pulled up beside him and got out of his Alfa.

“Miles Edgeworth. Phoenix Wright.”

“Dominic Toretto,” Miles said. It had been months since he had last spoken that name.

They clasped hands and Toretto reeled him in for a quick hug, slapping him heartily on the back. Miles did his best to return the gesture as soon as he recovered from his surprise. There was no small talk, no meaningless pleasantries with Toretto, only the genuine cheer of seeing family again after a long absence.

“You two made it,” Dom said.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Miles replied. He had illegally run a few red lights, driven well above the speed limit, and occasionally darted into the oncoming lane to bypass traffic to make it here. A trail of flipped middle fingers and a sea of angry honking had been left in his wake, while Phoenix had whooped with delight. 

“Looking good,” said Letty as she walked up, greeting them warmly with quick hugs. She took a step back, taking in their Date Night suits. “You two dressed for a lawsuit or a race?”

“We're dressed for winning a race,” said Phoenix. 

“Oh, really now?” asked Toretto.

Miles folded his arms. “If you think you can beat me on these mountain passes with your Charger, you’ve got another thing coming.” 

It was dark, but Miles was intimately familiar with all the corners of Big Tujunga Canyon, and could caress its curves with his Alfa as well as any seasoned racer could. Their rematch was long overdue, this time on his turf. 

Dom chuckled. “Who says American muscle can’t drift?” 

“Common sense?” quipped Phoenix, but this was clearly something they would have to settle on the road. 

Dom shot Phoenix a look that said those were bold words, for someone who had picked the losing side. He eyed the Alfa Romeo dubiously—refined Italian motors weren’t to his taste. “This your new ride?” he asked.

“You know it’s not about the ride,” Miles smirked. “It’s about who’s behind the wheel.”

Dom grinned, recognizing that sentiment. “Then let’s see it,” he challenged.

They shook hands again, and then climbed back into their cars. 

“Are you going to be okay, riding with me?” Miles asked, as his husband joined him in the passenger seat and closed the door behind him. 

Phoenix fastened his seatbelt and hooked his fingers through the handle above the window, grasping it tightly. 

“You ride, I ride,” he replied. 

Miles couldn’t help the wide grin that spread across his face as he and Toretto started their engines, and the crowd began to cheer in anticipation. He revved experimentally, drinking in the sound of his inline four-cylinder engine, as he put the ultra-light 4C into sport mode and activated launch control. He turned to glance at Toretto, who nodded back to him. 

Letty did the honors of starting the race off for them, stepping between the two vehicles. Miles watched with bated breath as she inclined her head to them both, but blew a kiss only to her husband. 

Miles revved again, and the rumble of the Charger answered him.

Letty dropped her arms. 

The Alfa’s engine roared as he opened the throttle, pushing the accelerator to the floor. He rocketed forward, both his and Dom’s rear tires squealing for grip against the tarmac. Miles Edgeworth and Dominic Toretto sprinted ahead on the downhill, entering a corner side by side before disappearing around the bend, leaving behind them just the fading afterimage of their red tail lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deepest thanks to everyone on the [Narumitsu Discord Server](http://narumitsuweek.tumblr.com/post/160694619495/narumitsu-discord-server) for putting up with me talking and crying about how this fic has ruined me for weeks on end. Thank you to everyone there and everywhere who came in and gave this thing a chance, regardless of how silly it sounded, or how little or well you knew either the _Ace Attorney_ or _Fast and Furious_ series. I did not expect anybody else to join me on this ride, so I am grateful for each and every person who has come by and enjoyed Miles Edgeworth and Phoenix Wright being badasses and starring in their own Fast and Furious film. Thank you, as always, to the lovely [naye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naye) who has offered so much encouragement and feedback, and has suffered through my [Fast and Furious Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/126215400/playlist/4WJVZiRoifDVD28ydUbi2b?si=gWohhRhERu6PQ_vqtKB_5A) too many times. 
> 
> If you’d like stop by where I hang around on the internet and have a chat, I’m [the-wintry-mizzenmast](http://the-wintry-mizzenmast.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Let’s talk about cars (Fast and Furious, Initial D, Top Gear) and how in love Miles Edgeworth and Phoenix Wright are!
> 
>  **Cars mentioned in this chapter:**  
>  Miles Edgeworth’s [Alfa Romeo 4C](https://imgur.com/a/UOnco1y)


End file.
